Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For as long as Ayano could remember, the world was grey.

Not in the literal sense—she saw colour as anyone else did, but they felt lifeless, muted. People around her laughed, cried, and raged with emotions she couldn’t understand. It was like their joys and sorrows were performances in a play where she was the audience, forever separated by an invisible wall. She mimicked their expressions when necessary, but it was hollow, like reading lines from a script without knowing the story.

Her father once called her a "quiet child." Others weren’t so kind, murmuring that she was an empty shell, a human body lacking a soul.

The words didn’t sting—how could they?—but she remembered them nonetheless.

Her father’s concern was evident in his kind, searching eyes, the way his hand hesitated before brushing her hair or patting her shoulder, as though afraid she might shatter under his touch. Her mother, however, dismissed his worries with the ease of someone who already knew the ending to a story.

“She’s just like me,” Ryoba would say, her tone almost proud. “I was the same at her age. But don’t worry—she’ll find her purpose when the time comes.”

Her purpose. That was what her mother called it, that mysterious force that would bring ‘colour’ to Ayano’s life. Ryoba often spoke of love as though it were divine, the key to unlocking the very essence of existence. “When you meet the one meant for you,” she’d say, her gaze distant and her voice syrupy sweet, “you’ll feel complete. Just like I did when I met your father.”

But Ayano didn’t want that. Not if it meant becoming like her mother.

Outwardly, her parents seemed perfect. Her father, always polite and soft-spoken, never raised his voice. Her mother, radiant and charismatic, commanded admiration wherever she went. The neighborhood wives envied their harmony, their quiet child, their immaculate home. But Ayano saw what others didn’t—the tension in her father’s shoulders when her mother was near, the way his eyes darkened and his hands trembled when she spoke too sweetly, smiled too brightly.

Her father wasn’t like her or her mother. He could feel. And Ayano knew that whatever love bound him to Ryoba wasn’t the fairytale her mother described. It was suffocating, consuming, and one-sided. Her mother’s love was a chain, and her father was simply too weak to break free.

Ayano promised herself she’d never fall into that trap. Or set it, for that matter.

But everything changed on the first day of her second year at Akademi High. The sterile routine of her grey life shattered when she collided with a boy in the hallway. His presence was the spark in her void, and suddenly, her muted world was ablaze with colour. The rush of emotions hit her like a tidal wave, overwhelming and intoxicating. It was addictive—euphoric, even.

For the first time in her life, Ayano felt alive.

…And she hated it—as much as a girl like her was capable of hatred, at least. That boy, Taro Yamada, wasn’t her salvation; he was her downfall.

The euphoria twisted into something darker when she saw him smiling with a classmate, Osana Najimi. Jealousy ignited in her chest, a violent inferno of rage and longing that she couldn’t control. She clenched her fists until her nails dug into her palms, the sting grounding her, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted to hurt. To destroy.

To kill.

Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind: “Love makes you strong.”

No, Ayano realised. This wasn’t love or strength—it was weakness. Taro wasn’t her saviour; he was her curse.

She resolved to bury those feelings, to extinguish the fire before it consumed her. She wouldn’t be like her mother. She wouldn’t chain herself to another person and call it love. She’d be the one to break the cycle, to end the curse that had plagued the Aishi family for generations.

But no matter how deeply she buried her emotions, they found ways to resurface. Sometimes, she’d catch herself following Taro home, her heart racing against her will. Other times, her thoughts would drift to him in class, her focus slipping as her stomach twisted with longing.

Ayano became a shadow, moving through her days unnoticed, a blank slate among her vibrant peers. But shadows have a way of drawing light, and one by one, people around her began to notice. They were drawn to her, like moths to a flame.

And for someone who felt nothing, Ayano would soon find herself at the center of everything.

Perhaps she’d come to realise that what she needed all along wasn’t colour.

It was light.

Chapter Text

The sun streamed through her window, the sound of her alarm cutting through the early morning silence. 

Ayano sighed, pushing the warmth of her covers aside as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Standing, she trudged toward the bathroom, but her steps faltered when her gaze fell on the pencil resting on the corner of her desk.

It was a painful reminder, one she’d rather have avoided—especially on a Monday morning.

A few days ago, it had been unclaimed, on his desk, and it was like there was something almost magnetic about it, something that pulled her towards it. When her eyes had landed on the pencil, she’d known it belonged to him in an instant.

He’d left it there carelessly—surely, he wouldn’t have minded, right?

Without thinking, she had reached for it, her heartbeat quickening. She had felt her pulse racing as her fingers closed around it. The faint bite marks on the pencil had sent an unwanted flutter of emotion through her chest, making her heart race faster than it should have.

It was nothing, she'd told herself. Just a small distraction. A way to keep herself from doing something worse—from claiming him as her own. It wasn’t a big deal. It was just a pencil. He wouldn’t even notice it was gone. 

After all, Taro didn’t care about her. He didn’t even know her. 

But who did he know?

Osana.

Ayano couldn’t forget how the girl always lingered around him, sticking to him like glue, despite the harsh words she often tossed his way. 

It didn’t make sense to Ayano. Osana was a normal girl—a girl who was actively sabotaging her own chance with Taro. If Ayano were in her place, things would be different. She’d know how to treat him, how to make him hers.

If only Osana knew.

If only she realised how much Ayano wanted to wrap her fingers around her neck and strangle the smile off her face—

…A painful reminder that pencil was. A reminder of how quickly Ayano’s emotions could spiral out of control.

She wasn’t normal.

She frowned, eyes narrowing. Osana, with her carelessness, had everything Ayano didn’t—emotions that came naturally, emotions that she didn’t have to fake. How lucky Osana was to be free like that, to already be friends with Taro. 

Ayano snapped out of her trance. She lost track of time, the weight of her thoughts dragging her down. She barely noticed how much time had slipped by.

Great. Now she was running late.

She’d always been good at pushing down her feelings—at acting like she didn’t have any. Because she didn't. But when it came to Taro, it was a different story. 

She shifted back into focus, brushing her teeth and pulling on her uniform, making sure her hair was neatly tied back into a ponytail. She was presentable enough for school, though the idea of having to go through another day made her want to crawl back into bed. 

Her walk to school felt dull, her legs moving on muscle memory alone. She didn’t notice the cherry blossoms fluttering around her or the students chatting and laughing.

To Ayano, it all felt monochrome—grey, lifeless, like the world was just a backdrop to her hollow shell.

As she passed through the school gates, she caught the familiar sound of Taro’s voice. And of course, Osana’s too. 

She wasn’t going to eavesdrop this time—she knew how that ended. Hearing Osana talk to Taro, her words always so stupid and careless, was enough to make Ayano’s stomach churn.

She could already picture the way Osana backtracked on every word, ruining her own chances in the process. 

She sighed, pushing her way into the building. She’d made it to school on time—though it was at the cost of breakfast. Her stomach growled in protest, but it was a sacrifice she had to make. 

“Morning, Yan-chan!” chirped a familiar voice as Ayano walked by. It was Midori, her attention mostly glued to the screen of her phone.  

Ayano gave a polite nod, murmuring a quick, “Morning,” before continuing on her way to class, her pace steady. 

It wasn’t that Ayano was a complete loner. She wasn’t fully invisible—she just knew how to blend in. The occasional hello to a classmate here and there, enough to make her seem social without drawing too much attention.

In reality, she had close to zero real friends. No one to trust.

She’d learned to fake it. Emotions were never her strong suit. She could smile when she needed to, say the right things to make people feel comfortable. It was all like… playing a game.

But manipulating people like her mother? No, that was something Ayano could never bring herself to do. So she settled for being average. Not too quiet, not too loud. Just... enough.

It was almost pathetic, the way she constantly wished she could be a normal girl—someone who didn’t have to pretend. But in the end, she was just performing, every day, for the world around her.

Her classroom was the same as always—neatly arranged desks, warm morning sunlight streaming in through the tall windows. 

Ayano slipped inside quietly, taking her usual seat by the window. From here, she could see the cherry blossoms outside swaying in the breeze, a sight she might’ve found beautiful if her world wasn’t so achingly dull.

As she settled in, her classmates trickled in one by one, their chatter filling the air. Ayano kept her head down, pulling a notebook from her bag and flipping it open to a random page.

But then Osana and Raibaru walked in together and Ayano glanced up instinctively, her breath hitching for a split second as her gaze flickered to the corridor outside just in time.

There he was...

Taro...

The bell rang, pulling the room into order as their teacher walked in.

Ayano tore her gaze away, forcing herself to focus on her notebook.

She straightened her posture, grabbing her notebook and pen, but her thoughts remained elsewhere. 

It was going to be a long day.

...

The teacher’s voice droned on and on about historical conflicts or something, a bunch of convoluted words Ayano barely even attempted to register.

“…and that brings us to the Treaty of Kanagawa,” Fukahori-sensei continued, her voice rising and falling with practiced cadence. “If we think about its impact—”

Ayano’s mind wandered, the lecture becoming nothing more than background noise.

She scribbled absent shapes and lines in the margin of her notebook, pretending to take notes. Her gaze drifted across the room, settling on her classmates.

Most were engaged, or at least trying to appear so. A few whispered quietly to one another, sneaking glances at their phones. Osana was at her usual desk, whispering something to Raibaru, her pen spinning idly between her fingers.

Ayano sighed, her eyes landing on the cherry blossoms just outside. 

“Alright, everyone,” the teacher’s voice broke through her haze, sharper now, commanding attention. “That’s enough for today’s lecture. I hope you’ve been paying attention because you’ll be putting some of this into practice.”

Ayano blinked, her gaze snapping back to the front of the room. And she wasn’t the only one, since it seemed that now the entire class was suddenly paying attention.

The teacher stepped out from behind her desk, a stack of papers in hand.

“We’ll be working on a collaborative assignment,” the teacher announced, placing the papers down with a decisive thud. “You’ll pair up with a classmate and write an essay analysing a historical treaty of your choice. This will be due by the end of the term.”

A ripple of murmurs spread across the room as students began looking around, gauging potential partners.

Not one person gave her a single glance.

Ayano didn’t move. Didn’t look at anyone. Well, this was fine. She was used to it by now—

“Ayano!” Midori’s voice cut through the chatter. “Wanna be my partner?”

Ayano turned her head, offering a polite smile. “Sure, Midori.”

Midori grinned, already planning on sliding into the seat next to her. “Perfect! Then, let’s—”

“...however!” Fukahori-sensei quickly interjected, cutting through the whispers in the classroom with ease. She paused, letting the silence settle before continuing with a smug smile. “I will be assigning your partners.”

Her announcement this time was met with a wave of groans and protests, the dissatisfaction spreading like wildfire across the room. Fukahori-sensei seemed to revel in the objections, her satisfied grin growing wider as she watched her students' dismay.

...

Before Ayano knew it, she was seated next to someone who caught her attention for all the wrong reasons. At first glance, the messy orange hair and unmistakable scowl seem eerily familiar. Osana?  

No, that couldn’t be right.  

This boy—though he looked nearly identical to her—was clearly someone else. Well, a different gender entirely.

His hair was a similar shade of bright orange, and his choice of clothes bore the same intentional style. Even their hairstyles were scarily similar. It was uncanny, and she found her dislike toward Osana unconsciously reflecting onto him.

Well… Who knew? Maybe he had a different personality. Right. She should give him the benefit of the doubt.

How long had he even been in her class? Ayano frowned slightly, realising she couldn’t recall ever noticing him before. Then again, she’d never made much of an effort to learn the names or faces of most of her classmates. 

She was snapped out of her thoughts by his sharp voice.

“Hello? Are you even listening to me?”  

Ayano blinked, glancing up to meet the boy’s eyes. They were narrowed in annoyance, his tone dripping with impatience. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as if he’d been waiting for her attention for an unreasonably long time.  

His posture and tone screamed irritation, but there was something off about it. The annoyance seemed almost… defensive, like he was trying too hard to sound exasperated but didn’t quite mean it.  

Okay. Definitely the same personality.

The boy let out a long, harsh sigh, shaking his head slightly before speaking again. “Anyway, I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Osano Najimi.”  

Najimi.  

It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together. Osana Najimi and Osano Najimi. They had to be related—siblings, maybe? Probably twins, actually. The thought sent an unwelcome flicker of irritation through her chest.

As if one of them wasn’t already enough.  

“I’m Ayano,” she replied flatly, keeping her voice steady even as she worked to mask her growing annoyance.

Ayano studied him for a moment, unimpressed. The resemblance to Osana was more than just physical—he had the same temper, too. Ayano paused, her fingers tightening just a little around her pen.

But he continued to stare at her expectantly. Ah. Did he say something? She really had to stop getting lost in thought. It seemed like it was becoming a habit. 

Ayano blinked, then tilted her head slightly. “I… Sorry. What did you say?”

He groaned, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, his ears tinged with pink. “I said—” he glanced away, muttering under his breath, “Forget it. Of course I’d get stuck with someone like you…”

The bell rang, signaling the end of class, and Fukahori-sensei stood up from her desk with a quick glance at the clock. 

"Alright, everyone," she called, her voice interjecting through the last lingering murmurs of chatter. "Before you all head out, I want to inform you that we’ll have a substitute teacher for the next few weeks."

Murmurs of collective confusion and quiet grumbling began once more among the students.

"You all will be starting your projects with him tomorrow," Fukahori-sensei continued, her tone unbothered by the reactions. "I expect all of you to behave, especially considering you’ll need to cooperate with each other on your assignments. Don’t waste the opportunity."

She shot a pointed look around the room. "And don’t think you can slack off just because it's a substitute.”

The class fell silent for a moment as the weight of her words sank in. After a moment, she sighed and nodded toward the door.

"Alright, you’re dismissed. Get out of here.”

The students began filing out, some eagerly chatting with their friends, others begrudgingly packing up their things. Ayano slowly gathered her notebooks, a familiar feeling of emptiness settling in her chest. 

Well, this was just perfect. Not only was she stuck with an Osana dupe for the next few weeks, but now they were getting some clueless substitute who probably wouldn't be able to control the class, let alone teach anything properly.

As she walked toward the door, she caught sight of Osano, who was trying—unsuccessfully—to act indifferent despite the slight frown on his face.

He noticed her glance, his mouth opening in preparation to speak, but he just as quickly clammed up, instead opting for some petty muttering under his breath.

Looks like they were both thinking the exact same thing.

Ayano gave him a sideways glance before stepping out of the classroom. 

…

Ayano's stomach growled quietly as she walked down the hallway. It was already lunchtime, and she hadn’t eaten at all today. Reaching into her pocket, she fished around, fingers taking out a few crumpled bills and loose change.

It was barely enough.

Her eyes briefly scanned the crowded cafeteria. Too many people, too much noise. She wasn’t in the mood.

And so instead, she headed for the vending machine outside, by the incinerator—quiet, isolated. It would be a quick fix.

She made her way down the side path and stopped in front of the machine. The smell of burning trash lingered in the air, but she didn’t mind.

She inserted the coins into the machine, pressing the button for the chips—the only thing she could afford—and then crouched down to collect her snack.

“You’ve been standing there forever,” a rough voice suddenly remarked, cutting through the stillness.

Ayano looked up and saw a boy standing nearby, leaning against the fence with his arms crossed.

He wore a bright yellow shirt that practically screamed for attention, and his short blonde hair stuck out in all directions like he hadn’t bothered to comb it. There was a single scar across one of his eyes, a rough, jagged mark that contrasted against his pale skin.

He was watching her, his gaze sharp, his body language demanding space.

How convenient. Of all the moments to use the vending machine, it just so happened he needed it right now, at the exact same time she did? The timing was almost laughable, as if he’d been waiting for an excuse to bother her.

“Seriously, you’re taking this long for a snack?” he added, sounding irritated. He didn’t move, just stood there, eyeing her as if she were the one interrupting something important.

Ayano raised an eyebrow but didn’t answer. Her focus remained on the bag in her hand, the slight crunch of the chips as she collected it from the machine.

“Are you done?” he pushed, stepping closer with a quick, frustrated exhale. “I need to use the machine too, and you’re just standing there like you own the place. It’s a vending machine, not a damn art exhibit. Get lost already,” he continued, despite only being met with silence.

Seriously, he was acting like his life was on the line. If Ayano could feel for anything besides Taro, she’d probably find this situation a little amusing.

It didn’t take long for her to realise: He wasn’t just some annoyed student. The way he carried himself—the way he looked her up and down like she was trespassing—told Ayano everything she needed to know. His posture, the way he spoke, all of it screamed territorial.

She remembered it then. This wasn’t just about the vending machine. He was trying to assert dominance.

He was a delinquent.

She didn’t particularly care about them, but it was common knowledge around the school. She knew they liked to intimidate others and that they thought the incinerator area was their personal domain. 

A place for him and his kind. And judging by the scar, he probably didn’t mind getting into a few scuffles to maintain his ‘territory.’

Ayano didn’t consider herself someone who judged a book by its cover, but… she should have been able to guess what he was from his appearance alone.

Ayano glanced around, noting the empty space, the quiet solitude. The fact that no one else had ventured to this part of the school recently only seemed to confirm what she had figured out. He’d probably been expecting her to get scared, turn around, and leave the way everyone else did.

Maybe he'd even thought she’d apologise or something. It was always the same with people like him.

But she didn’t flinch. She didn’t blink. In fact, the more he spoke, the more her indifference grew. The only thing that registered in her mind was that he was taking up space and wasting her time.

After a brief pause, she gave a small, flat glance in his direction. “I’m done. Are you?” she finally said, voice as cold as ever.

He stared at her, his face flickering with surprise. She showed no fear. No hesitation. Just a blank, emotionless gaze. She wasn’t intimidated by him.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He'd expected a reaction—a flinch, maybe, or even a reluctant sorry. But Ayano remained unmoved. He stood there for a moment, eyes narrowing as if trying to figure her out, but she didn’t budge.

“Whatever,” he muttered, pushing past her to use the machine. He slammed his fist against the buttons, seemingly aggravated.

Ayano just turned and walked away, her steps calm, unfazed by the brief encounter. She had what she came for, and his presence was no longer relevant.

When Ayano disappeared around the corner, Umeji let out a sharp, irritated sigh. His hand hovered over the vending machine’s buttons for a moment before dropping to his side, empty.  

Obviously, he wasn’t actually buying something.

The whole act was a setup—a routine intimidation to remind others of their place.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he turned and sauntered back toward the group of delinquents clustered by the incinerator’s entrance.  

One of them raised an eyebrow, leaning against the fence. “So? You scare her off?"

“It was probably some clueless first-year, huh? At least she knows now,” another added.

“...Yeah, I dealt with her,” Umeji replied, his voice a little strained. No one seemed to notice the hesitation.

All except for one person.

“You sure?”

The question was quiet but carried an undeniable weight, cutting through the idle chatter and drawing everyone’s attention. 

Umeji’s gaze shot up to meet Osoro’s. The leader stood a little apart from the rest of the group, arms casually crossed, his posture relaxed yet commanding. His sharp brown eyes locked onto Umeji with an almost detached curiosity.

For a moment, the rest of the group carried on, oblivious to the subtle shift in the air. But there was something about Osoro that made the atmosphere around him seem different—less rowdy, more deliberate.

He wasn’t shouting, wasn’t demanding attention. His presence alone, however, made everyone feel like they were being quietly evaluated.

“Yeah,” Umeji repeated, forcing the words out with more conviction this time. “Handled it.”

Osoro didn’t immediately respond. He didn’t need to. His gaze was enough to keep Umeji from feeling entirely at ease, as if the leader could see right through him, detecting the faintest crack in his bravado.

The others laughed, but Osoro remained still, watching Umeji with a faint, unreadable expression.

The rest of the school day seemed to pass by in a blur.

As Ayano strolled down the familiar street, her mind was occupied by the usual thoughts, but her eyes were pulled, against her will, toward Taro. He stood at the corner of the street, his messy hair swaying in the breeze as his eyes were glued to a book. 

She hadn’t meant to watch him, but there she was, her pace slowing as she observed him, a faint warmth creeping into her chest. 

Why did he affect her like this? She asked herself, annoyed at the way her body seemed to respond to his presence. She hated this feeling, the one where she couldn’t control her attention, couldn’t ignore him like she did with everyone else.

Love—It was a weakness she resented.

Unconsciously, Ayano was rooted to the spot, eyes fixed onto him. She hadn't even realised how long she was staring until—

"Hey. Ayano. Aren’t we gonna talk about the project or something?"

The voice startled her. Ayano turned, finding Osano standing just behind her, his expression curious. She hadn’t heard him approach, and she felt a strange wave of disorientation pass over her. Her cheeks heated, and she felt her usual, numb exterior falter for a brief moment.

"Uh... we can talk about it during class," she mumbled, her voice distant, as usual, just a bit more… flustered. "I’m going home."

Osano raised an eyebrow.

Up until now, she’d been the blank-faced, unfazed girl at the back of the classroom—almost too indifferent sometimes that it was unsettling. But for the first time, she seemed... distracted.

Before he could say anything else, Ayano turned and began walking away, her heart pounding louder.

Osano stood still, watching her leave, the curiosity settling in his chest. 

She didn’t want to stay in his presence any longer than she had to. She wasn’t ready to deal with what was running through her mind, not when it involved Taro.

As she walked, her thoughts returned to the earlier moment. Her mind was flooded with frustration—why was she so drawn to him? She was already all too aware of what would happen if she let herself get involved with him. 

She’d seen it before, hadn’t she?

Her parents. And look at where it led them.

Her father had been forced into it, Ayano knew. Forced to stay, forced to care, even when it was clear that her mother would never change. It was suffocating. It was hollow.

And that hollow feeling was something Ayano had come to know all her life.

Ayano’s father had always been a weak man, especially when it came to her mother. He wasn’t strong enough to resist her, not strong enough to stand his ground. The women of the Aishi bloodline were trained to be relentless, their strength centred on devotion to their destined one.  

Ayano was no different. Since she was little, her mother had drilled it into her—this was her purpose, her identity.

It wasn’t something she chose; it was something she was born into. Yet, sometimes, it felt strange, almost suffocating, like a life that wasn’t entirely hers to live.

Now, watching Taro from a distance, she couldn’t help but feel like she was falling into the same cycle.

She didn’t want to care for someone who wouldn’t notice her, didn’t want to let herself become tangled in a relationship like that. She didn’t want to repeat the mistakes she’d seen growing up. And yet, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from feeling... something.

Something that gnawed at her insides.

…

When Ayano reached the front door of her house, she unlocked it and stepped inside, her footsteps echoing in the quiet space. It felt almost eerie, like the silence was thick enough to suffocate her. 

The house was always so quiet when her mother was away. 

As a child, she’d find herself sitting by the window, watching as her father sat at the table, his slouched form hunched over as he sipped his coffee.

He was a kind man, with soft eyes and a gentle smile, but there was something about the way he seemed to fade into the background when her mother returned that left Ayano with a heavy feeling in her chest.

Her elementary school classmates’ fathers were loud and confident, their voices filling the air with authority, always joking or making everyone laugh. But Ayano’s father was different.

He never raised his voice, never demanded attention. Instead, he would quietly ask her about her day, always eager to hear how she was doing, despite his own exhaustion. 

It was in those rare moments, when it was just the two of them—even though she was never capable of happiness—that Ayano felt safe.

He would brush her hair softly, asking if she was happy, if school was kind to her. In return, Ayano would give him a smile, a small one, but enough to make his face light up with pride.

They were the only times she felt she could truly express herself, even if she couldn't actually… feel. He would hold her close, a gesture that always felt so comforting, yet so fragile. 

She’d wished she could tell him everything—how she didn’t feel the same as the other girls at school, how she felt a little different, a little out of place—but even her father, gentle and kind, couldn’t fix what she couldn’t say.

But when her mother would come home, the warmth would vanish. Her father’s posture would change, a little more stiff, a little more careful. Ayano would retreat back into her quiet shell, the room filled with a silence that wasn’t so comforting anymore.

Her mother didn’t seem to mind Ayano’s silence, in fact, she almost seemed to encourage it. And when her mother wasn’t looking, her father would place a hand on Ayano’s head, a brief touch of comfort before he slipped back into his role.

It wasn’t that Ayano hated her mother, or resented her. But there was something about the way her mother seemed to dominate their lives, how her father wilted under her presence, that made Ayano uneasy.

Her mother was always radiant, always happy, always giving the impression of the perfect wife, the perfect mother. Ayano had heard the compliments from neighbours and family friends, how her mother’s smile could light up the entire room. 

But Ayano couldn’t ignore the subtle signs—the way her father always seemed to shrink when her mother spoke, the tension in his hands as he squeezed hers too tightly when another comment about her mother’s devotion to him was made.

Ayano had learned early that love, the kind her mother talked about, was meant to make you strong. Her mother spoke of how love could lift you up, how it could give you the strength to face the world. Or even defeat it, if necessary.

But Ayano didn’t see that same strength in her father. 

He was weak—not in the way that made him incapable of love, but in the way he bent to her mother’s every whim, in the way he avoided conflict at all costs, shrinking under the weight of her command.

But he still had something left in him. It was fragile, but it was there, he was still a normal human, after all. Ayano had never blamed him for being weak. She understood why he was that way, why he tried so hard to please her mother, even when it broke him little by little.

She didn’t want to be like that. She didn’t want to be the kind of woman who could make a man weak with her love.

That wasn’t love, not the kind her mother had always talked about. She didn’t want to see another person become a shadow of themselves just to make her feel complete.

The moments with her father, when it was just the two of them, would always be precious to her. His quiet strength, his gentle touch, even in his weakness, would stay with her. And deep down, Ayano knew that the love her mother had shown wasn’t the love she was searching for.

But as her father would hold her close, his arms wrapping around her tightly, Ayano would close her eyes, wondering if one day, she would find something stronger, something real.

...She took a sharp breath and pushed those thoughts away, willing herself to focus on something else. She wasn’t going to fall into that same pattern. She couldn’t.

As she continued into the living room, she noticed the absence of her parents’ things—their coats, shoes, bags—nothing was in its usual place.

She stopped, puzzled. The note on the coffee table caught her eye, and she walked over to it, her fingers pausing as she unfolded it.

“We’ve gone to the United States for a trip. Don’t wait up.”

She frowned at the terse message. It wasn’t the first time they’d been away for a long period, but the emptiness of the house, paired with the coldness of the note, made her stomach tighten, just a little.

She was alone again, just like always. 

Letting out a small breath, she dropped the letter back on the table, before making her way up into her bedroom. She flipped the light switch, the light spilling across the neatly arranged room. Everything was in its place, just as she’d left it.

Pulling off her shoes, Ayano slid them neatly against the wall, then loosened her tie, letting it fall onto the chair beside her desk. She moved on autopilot, her motions practised from days of the same routine. Her uniform joined the tie, and she reached for her pyjamas.

But just as she was about to turn towards the bathroom, her phone buzzed from her pocket, the faint vibration breaking the stillness. She paused, pulling it out and glancing at the screen. A text message.

Her brows knitted together as she unlocked her phone.  

"Hey." 

With a sigh, she turned the screen off and shoved the phone back into her pocket. Probably just a scam or some prank—nothing worth her time.  

Her stomach growled, pulling her focus back to her own hunger. She realised she hadn’t eaten much since lunch, and even then it was just a quick snack from the vending machine. Not exactly a balanced meal.  

Heading downstairs, she started planning what to have for dinner. But just as she reached the kitchen, her phone buzzed in her pocket.

Then again.

And again.

Three messages in rapid succession.  

Whoever this was, they were relentless.  

Standing in front of the fridge, she hesitated. Curiosity got the better of her. She pulled her phone out, intending to put an end to whatever this was.  

But her breath caught in her throat as she read the messages.  

"Not going to reply?"  
"Fine then, I’ll cut to the chase."  
"I saw you stalking an upperclassman."  

Her hand froze on the fridge handle. She didn't even register the cold air from the fridge.

"Do I know you?" 
"I’m sorry, there must be some misunderstanding."

His response came swiftly, as if he’d been waiting for her to say that.

"No need to play dumb. I'm just trying to help. Want to know about the girl he was with?"

The mention of the girl made her stomach twist slightly. It had to be Osana, she realised. She could feel her curiosity stirring, even though she tried to push it down.

“What is it?” 

Ayano typed back reluctantly, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. His message was brief, almost casual.

"Her name is Osana Najimi. She has a crush on him."

Ayano’s heart skipped a beat. She couldn’t ignore the unsettling feeling creeping up her spine.

 "Why are you telling me this?" 

"I think you might be the one who can help her... get what she deserves."

The quick reply lingered in the air, heavy with implication. Ayano's fingers hovered over the keys, her thoughts swirling. 

"What do you mean?"

His reply was short and chilling.

"Eliminate her."

Eliminate. Ayano lowered her phone, the screen before her suddenly feeling too close.

“You understand what I mean, don’t you?"

It wasn’t just about Osana anymore. There was something about the way he phrased it, something that made her feel like she was standing on the edge of something dangerous. She wanted to pull away, to end the conversation right there. But the pull of his words—how easily he seemed to read her mind, how he knew just what buttons to press—kept her typing. 

And she had a feeling she knew exactly who this messenger was.

“You must be Info-kun.”

“Is that what they call me?”  
“I offer more than just blackmail, if that's what you're thinking.”  
“I’ve installed an app on your phone. Take a look.”

A part of Ayano thought this was all a joke. But that changed as soon as she exited to her home screen and saw the unfamiliar icon of the app.

How did he...?

“If you do a few small favours for me, I can offer you a wide variety of services.”

She saw his message notification at the top of her screen. Reluctantly, she opened the app. To her surprise, there was a point system—along with the symbol of a panty. 

“And what are these favours, exactly?”

“So you've noticed. That point system is for panty shots.”

The unsettling feeling she had slowly disappeared, replaced by something else entirely.

“You’re disgusting.”

“They aren’t for me,” he replied smoothly, "I sell them. Business is business.”
“Just think about it. If you’re not interested in my services, feel free to ignore me.”

The word eliminate played in her mind on repeat.

Ayano’s stomach churned.

She’d lost her appetite entirely.

Chapter Text

Ayano lay in bed on her side, staring at the pale glow of her phone screen.

2:56 AM.

The app was still there, the icon sitting on her screen like a loaded gun, taunting her. Info-kun spoke as if this was all normal to him—just another piece of advice for a pawn in his game. She didn’t like the way he said it all, as if asking someone to ruin another’s life for his benefit was perfectly reasonable.

But what she hated the most was the fact she was seriously considering it.

Because for the first time, she was being forced to face how Taro makes her feel. And worse, she was being directly encouraged to act on it.

She turned over, burying her face in her pillow, squeezing her eyes shut.

Sleep wouldn’t come.

Her thoughts were too loud, too persistent, dragging her deeper into herself. Every excuse she tried to muster sounded hollow.

Her chest tightened, an unfamiliar weight pressing down on her ribcage.

For the first time in years, she felt the urge to cry.

But no tears came.

They never did.  

Ayano sighed, staring blankly at the ceiling. The stillness of the room began to blur into something else. A memory, familiar yet distant at the same time, surfaced as her eyes finally began to close.  

…

She was six again. The playground was quiet, apart from the occasional chirping of birds and the distant hum of traffic. 

Ayano sat on a swing, her small legs dangling, toes brushing lightly against the gravel as she rocked back and forth. Her grey eyes, devoid of the usual childhood sparkle, scanned the park.

That was when she noticed him—a boy hunched by the base of the slide.

His head was buried in his arms, shoulders trembling as muffled whimpers escaped him. His dark, messy hair stuck out at odd angles, catching the dappled sunlight that filtered through the trees above.

She didn’t think much of it at first, her curiosity only piqued when she caught the faint sound of crying. Crying was a foreign concept to her, as was sadness. The sound of his sobs, however, stirred something—something unspoken and unfamiliar.

Curiosity. Her curiosity took hold.

Dragging her feet, she brought the swing to a halt, the rusty chains creaking faintly. She rose to her feet and approached the boy, her shoes crunching softly against the sand.

As she drew closer, she could make out the streaks of dirt on his scraped knees and the way his fists were clenched tightly, his knuckles pale.

“What happened?” she asked, her voice holding no pity, just genuine interest.  

The boy startled, jerking his head up. His tear streaked face came into view, grey eyes puffy and bloodshot. He sniffled, hurriedly scrubbing his sleeve across his face in a futile attempt to erase the evidence.

“...I got pushed,” he muttered, his voice cracking slightly. He avoided her gaze, looking down at the sand. “These boys... they said I was annoying.”

Ayano tilted her head, her blank expression unchanging. There was no judgement in her gaze, no sympathy. Just quiet observation, like she was trying to piece him together.

“I... I shouldn’t be crying,” he continued, his voice trembling as he tried to steady himself. “My dad says strong men aren’t supposed to cry.”

Ayano tilted her head, her expression blank, her tone matter-of-fact. “You’re a child. You should cry if you feel like it.”

The boy blinked, caught off guard by her straightforwardness. For a moment, he forgot the sting of the bullies’ words, confusion flashing across his tear-streaked face.

Was she not a child herself?

“You should cry if you’re sad,” she repeated, as though it were the most logical thing in the world.  

It wasn’t something she had experienced herself, but it was something she had picked up. She would sneak glances at the dramatic soap operas her parents would watch late at night, the kind they put on while she was supposed to be asleep. 

There, she learned that sadness and tears were just part of the human experience. She didn't quite understand it, but she thought it was common knowledge.

He stared at her, caught off guard. The frankness in her tone was almost reassuring, her lack of pity strangely comforting. “But—I want to be strong,” he said, his voice small but resolute. “Strong enough to stand up for myself someday.”

“You can still cry,” she replied. “Crying doesn’t make you weak. My dad cries sometimes. He’s still the strongest person I know.”

She paused. “I don’t cry. But that doesn’t mean I’m stronger. I just don’t know how.”

Without another word, Ayano reached into her pocket. Her small fingers brushed against the crinkly wrapper of a candy.

She pulled it out—a White Rabbit, the paper slightly crinkled—and held it out to him.

“Here. It’s sweet,” she said simply, her voice as neutral as ever.

He hesitated, his fingers hovering uncertainly before finally taking it. His hand brushed hers for a fleeting moment, and he clutched the candy like it was something fragile.

Ayano noticed him wipe his eyes with his sleeve again, the fabric already damp from his tears.

Reaching into her other pocket, she took out a neatly folded handkerchief, plain white and unadorned, except for the initials “AA”, embroidered in one corner, proof of her mother’s meticulous stitching. She handed it to him without a second thought.

“And this. Use it to cry properly.”

The boy stared at her, hesitating. “But it’s yours—”

“No,” she replied simply. “Keep it. You need it more than I do.”

She wasn’t exactly lying when she said it. She never cried, so what was the point of having the handkerchief, anyway? 

Maybe that was why her words—that weren’t intended to be reassuring in any way—felt so sincere to him.

He took the handkerchief hesitantly, the fabric soft in his hands. His throat tightened as he struggled to find the right words. No one had ever spoken to him like this before, without judgement or expectation.

A voice called her name then, breaking the moment. Ayano turned, spotting her father standing by the park gate, his tall figure silhouetted against the setting sun.

“I have to go.”

“Wait, my—my name—” he began, but his voice faltered.

Already standing, she glanced back at the boy one last time. “Goodbye,” she said, her tone neutral, yet somehow it lingered like an unspoken promise.

Just like that, she walked away, leaving the boy sitting there with a piece of candy in one hand and a handkerchief in the other.

“…my name is Budo,” he finished in a whisper, too quiet for her to hear.

He watched her go, her small figure disappearing through the playground’s gate. His chest felt lighter, though he couldn’t quite explain why.

And as she disappeared from view, he realised he had stopped crying.

…

Ayano jolted awake, her heart pounding in the stillness of her room. 

She blinked rapidly, disoriented, her mind grappling with the clear fragments of the dream that lingered on the edges of her thoughts.

It had been a long time since she’d dreamt so vividly, and even then, her dreams usually revolved around Taro, her forbidden fantasies that dissolved the moment reality intruded.  

But this? This was different.  

She sat up slowly, rubbing her temples as if the motion could ground her. A dream about her childhood. She often found herself thinking about those days, but never that memory in particular.

How strange that her mind had chosen now to unearth it.  

It was the first time in her life she’d ever seen someone cry in real time. She had almost forgotten about it, buried it beneath years of indifference and apathy. But something about that moment had stayed with her, dormant yet alive, tucked away in the corners of her mind.  

Maybe that was why it had surfaced now, unbidden and raw, as if her subconscious refused to let her forget.

She reached over to her bedside table, fumbling in the dim light for her phone. The screen lit up, casting a soft glow across her face.  

5:00 AM. Exactly.

Ayano let out a soft sigh, sinking back against her pillow. Barely two hours—that was all the sleep she’d managed to get. Barely enough to dull the edges of her exhaustion.

Her body ached with the heaviness of fatigue, yet her mind buzzed relentlessly, refusing to give her peace.  

She stared at the numbers on the screen, the simplicity of the time feeling almost mocking. The world outside was still cloaked in darkness, the silence of the early morning broken only by the faint hum of the phone in her hand.

Well, at least she still had about an hour before she needed to get ready. 

She could afford just another hour of sleep.

Ayano bolted through the school gates, her movements sluggish despite the urgency of her pace.

She looked like a zombie. Dark bags under her eyes, her usually presentable appearance crumbling under the weight of exhaustion.  

She was late. 

All because she decided an extra hour of sleep was worth the risk. She should’ve known better. The warning signs had been there. 

That suspicious sense of comfort when she stirred awake, the warm cocoon of her bedsheets that practically begged her to stay put. The faint, far-off sound of her alarm, ringing relentlessly for an hour while her groggy brain tuned it out like white noise.  

Ayano was numb to emotion by nature, but even she wasn’t immune to the effects of sleep deprivation.

Her limbs felt like lead, her mind moving at a fraction of its usual speed. The world around her seemed harsher, louder—every sound and sight grating against her frayed nerves.  

But she couldn’t exactly complain. She’d made her bed—literally and figuratively—and now she had no choice but to lie in it.  

She kept her head low, speed-walking up the stairs, her movements robotic. The corridors were eerily silent, a clear sign that everyone else was already in class.

Everyone, that is, except for the delinquents who were probably lingering somewhere. And being lumped in with them was the last thing she wanted.

From the corner of her eye, Ayano caught sight of the delinquent from yesterday, the one in the bright yellow shirt.

He was casually loitering in the hallway as if he had all the time in the world. As soon as their eyes met, he paused for a brief, almost incomprehensible moment, before shooting her an irritated glance and swiftly turning away.

She was far too exhausted to register the look he gave her.

…Nor to notice the leader of the delinquents lingering just behind Umeji, silently observing the interaction with a raised eyebrow.

But her only focus right now was making it to class.

Ayano slid into her classroom, pausing just inside the doorway. The usual low buzz of chatter was muted, and every pair of eyes seemed to turn toward her. At the front of the room stood someone unfamiliar. 

A student? No, he wasn’t in uniform. 

Oh, right. There was supposed to be a substitute today, covering for the next few weeks. She’d completely forgotten. 

Well, substitutes were a gamble, weren’t they? A 50/50 chance he’d be lenient. Maybe luck was on her side today. 

“Look who finally decided to join us,” the man said, his voice low and smooth, almost too sultry for a classroom. His face looked surprisingly young, but the way he carried himself radiated authority. 

Ayano offered a quick, small bow. “I apologise. It won’t happen again.” Damage control was key. Be polite, stay neutral, and avoid any further attention. 

The substitute—Mido-sensei, judging by the name she saw written on the chalkboard—arched an eyebrow. The corner of his mouth tugged upward, hovering somewhere between a smirk and a reprimand. 

“Take your seat,” he said, his voice velvety with an inflection that made the simple instruction feel like something else entirely.

Phew. Okay, so he was lenient after all. She straightened, lifting her head to finally take in his appearance fully. Brown hair, piercing red eyes. But what really drew her attention wasn’t his hair, his eyes, or even his face. 

It was his chest. 

Barely covered by his half-buttoned shirt, it was on full display, almost as if mocking the very concept of professionalism. 

…Too lenient. Way too lenient. 

Ayano slipped into her seat without a word, blending into the background as best she could. This substitute was definitely strange.

Whoever came up with his character has probably never seen daylight or interacted with the real world.

Though surprisingly, Mido-sensei managed to command the class with ease. Despite his overly relaxed demeanor and the half-exposed shirt that still screamed provocative, his teaching was, against all odds, effective. 

Ayano couldn’t help but notice how unusually focused her classmates seemed. Their eyes were glued to the front of the room, their attention unwavering in a way she wasn’t seeing yesterday. Was it the quality of the teaching or something else?  

It became clear soon enough. When a student’s focus wandered, Mido-sensei casually called them out, his tone laced with a peculiar edge.  

"Pay attention to my class, or I’ll have to punish you."  

The words sounded almost sinister, yet instead of eliciting dread, they seemed to have the opposite effect—especially among the female students. Ayano blinked, baffled, as a few openly swooned, their cheeks flushed.  

But whatever it was, it worked. Everyone snapped back to attention, hanging on his every word. An unconventional teaching method, sure, but undeniably effective.

And unlike Ayano's regular teacher, who would yap endlessly with no regard for pacing, his explanations were concise, clear, and straight to the point.  

It almost made her forget how bizarre he was. Almost.  

What Ayano couldn’t forget, however, was her streak of luck—or lack thereof. As Mido-sensei began reminding the class of their assigned partners for the ongoing project—apparently handed down to him by their usual teacher—her gaze flicked to the list he wrote on the board.  

Ayano Aishi and Osano Najimi.  

She groaned internally. Of course. How could she have forgotten? Another detail that had completely slipped her mind.  

Around her, a few classmates grumbled audibly, clearly disgruntled by the announcement.

They must have been hoping their former teacher had forgotten to write down the partner allocations, leaving Mido-sensei no choice but to let them pick their own partners. But alas, no such luck.  

Students began rearranging their desks, the scraping of chairs against the floor almost deafening. Ayano stayed in her seat, unfazed, as usual, her eyes tracing the board where Mido-sensei’s list still hung. 

She wasn’t exactly thrilled about working with Osano, but there wasn’t much she could do about it now.

The shuffle of desks continued around her, and she let her gaze wander aimlessly over the activity. That was, until the scraping of a particularly loud desk caught her attention. She turned her head to see Osano shoving his table toward hers, a grunt escaping him as he maneuvered it into position.

"Move over," Osano muttered, not even bothering to hide the irritation in his voice as his table clattered into hers. She didn’t look up at him, but Ayano could feel his presence now, the space between them suddenly closing in.

Without saying a word, he slid into his seat, the familiar scowl on his face like it always was when he was forced into something he didn’t want to do.

Well, there was no avoiding it now.

Osano finally turned his head, his expression ready to deliver another snarky comment. However, the words faltered the moment his gaze landed on Ayano’s face. 

He paused, his orange eyes taking in the details: her usually neat appearance was slightly off, her uniform slightly wrinkled, and the dark shadows under her eyes spoke of a more than sleepless night. 

“Whoa,” he blurted, his tone more blunt than he intended. “You look dead.”

…More dead than usual, at least.   

He seemed to consider saying more, his lips parting slightly as if to follow up, but the sound of Mido-sensei’s voice snapping the class to attention made him think better of it. 

“By the way,” Mido began, his voice casual, “I’m not sure if your previous teacher mentioned, but you’ll eventually have to present this project in front of the class. Just a heads up.” He leaned casually against the lectern, eyes scanning the room.

Osano’s face instantly paled at the mention of presenting. He visibly stiffened, a nervous tension radiating off him. Ayano didn’t need to be a detective to pick up on his discomfort. 

She was about to ask what was wrong when Osano muttered under his breath, “I don’t want to present...” His voice was almost a whisper, the kind of admission he’d never normally let slip.

Ayano glanced over at him, then shrugged. “I’ll do the presenting,” she said matter-of-factly, already assuming the responsibility and not at all seeing the issue.

Osano’s eyes widened, clearly caught off guard. “What? But—” he hesitated, trying to figure out how to phrase his next words without sounding rude.

Wait, was he actually thinking before he spoke? That was new.

She raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

He struggled to find the right words, but after a moment, they tumbled out, “Your voice is like… a sleeping pill, or something.” He winced internally, realising how it sounded. “I-If you present, the class will probably fall asleep to your monotone voice,” he doubled down with more conviction, trying to salvage what little dignity he had left.

"So, you're saying I'd be bad at it because I'm boring?" she asked, her tone calm, but with just enough edge to make Osano squirm. She wasn’t offended, though. She was used to comments like that, about how hollow she was. 

In fact, being called just boring was a privilege.

“N-No! That’s not what I meant!” he stammered, waving his hands defensively. “It’s just—you know—you’re not exactly... animated or whatever.” He crossed his arms tightly, looking anywhere but at her. But as his words continued to spill out, he realised how childish he sounded.

…And it wasn’t like he would do any better. He already knew he was terrible at presenting. Even though he acted brash and confident, deep down, he felt uncomfortable being at the centre of attention in a formal setting. 

He hadn’t expected Ayano to actually hear his remark, let alone take it seriously. And now, here he was, desperately scrambling to backtrack, trying to shield himself.

He wasn’t used to this, to her calm response. It was easier when he could hide behind his pride.

“But you just said you didn’t want to—”  

“I know what I said!” Osano interjected.

“Hm.” She rested her chin on her hand, studying him. “Then you’ll present.”

“What?! No way!” Osano recoiled back as if the idea physically repelled him. 

She shrugged. “Better than the class falling asleep, right?”

“But—” He stopped. Osano didn’t even know what he wanted anymore. 

Presenting made him feel exposed. Ayano could see it in the way he fidgeted, trying to avoid the situation altogether. He was worried about messing up or looking foolish in front of others. He hated feeling vulnerable, above anything else.

In a lot of ways, he was just like Osana. Just… a lot more prideful.

For obvious reasons, this irritated Ayano. It wasn’t truly about him, though—more like the sheer frustration of dealing with someone who acted like Osana. If he didn’t want to present, why not just let her take over? 

She just couldn’t understand it, and she didn’t particularly feel like understanding it. She didn’t have the energy today.

Ayano leaned back in her chair, unfazed. “Forget it. I’ll present.” She spoke with certainty, as though the decision had already been made for him. “You can do the research. I’ll handle the presentation. We’ll both work on the writing. Sound fair?”

The words stung. Osano didn’t want to agree, but deep down, a part of him appreciated that she wasn’t trying to sugarcoat anything. 

She wasn’t offering him sympathy, but instead, a simple, matter-of-fact solution. For once, it wasn’t about whether he looked good in front of others. It was just... what needed to be done.

He opened his mouth to argue, but the words didn’t come. He had a feeling she wasn’t going to back down. The prideful part of him wanted to fight, to prove that he could handle it, but another part, one he didn’t like to acknowledge, was already letting go.

Osano grumbled quietly but didn’t argue further, his cheeks flushing slightly. “...Yeah. Fine.”

The tension in his shoulders melted away, giving way to an unfamiliar warmth that spread through his chest.

Lunchtime had started, and Ayano drifted through the hallways like a shadow.

Her footsteps dragged, her body weighed down by exhaustion, and her mind fixed on the simple goal of enduring the rest of the day.  

A few students called out greetings as she passed, their cheerful voices grating against her sluggish mood. She raised a hand, waving in return, the motion stiff and detached. She was operating on autopilot.  

Her stomach let out a faint growl.  

Not only was she bone-tired, but hunger gnawed at her relentlessly. She’d forgotten to pack lunch again in her rush to get out the door this morning, and to make matters worse, her spare change was already spent at the vending machine yesterday.  

This wasn’t looking good. Her parents had left her a little money before their trip, but she could already feel it slipping away. The allowance wouldn’t last her very long, she knew.

She had to get a job soon. Buraza Town wasn’t too far from her house, and she’d heard there were places hiring.

As she trudged past a classroom, a voice broke through her contemplations.  

“You there. I need a favor.”  

Ayano looked up to find a teacher standing at the doorway, her expression expectant.  

Really? Why Ayano, of all people? Was it because she was the only one wandering alone? She let out a quiet sigh and stepped closer.  

The teacher handed her a stack of papers. “Take these to the cooking club, will you?”  

Ayano gave a small bow and took them. “Right away, teacher.” Turning on her heel, she walked briskly down the hallway, her pace a little faster than before.  

Actually, this was perfect. 

If she was lucky, the cooking club would have some spare leftovers she could snag. Anything would do at this point—she was desperate, and it showed in the way she practically speed-walked down the stairs.

Her focus was so narrowed on the thought of food that she didn’t notice the other student walking from the opposite direction.

One moment, the hallway was empty, and the next, she collided with someone.

She stumbled back, barely managing to catch herself before she fell. Unfortunately, the papers she had been carrying scattered across the floor in a flurry.

“Whoa, sorry about that!” The voice was bright and startled.

Ayano looked up at the boy she’d run into. He was a little taller than her, with short blonde hair and an easy-going smile that practically radiated energy. His school uniform was slightly unkempt, his tie loose, and a pair of yellow swimming goggles rested casually around his head.

Before she could fully process what had happened, he lightly rested a hand on her shoulder. “You okay? That was a pretty solid bump,” he said, his thumb gently brushing against her sleeve in an almost unconscious motion.

“That was on me,” he added quickly, crouching down to gather the papers. His movements were quick and precise, but he glanced at her as he worked, his expression shifting to one of mild concern. “You look kinda out of it. Did you skip breakfast or something?”

Ayano straightened up, brushing herself off. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

“Tired and hungry, huh?” He grinned, collecting the last paper. “Your stomach totally gave you away.”

She blinked at him, surprised he’d heard her stomach rumbling. Before she could reply, he stood up, handing her the neatly stacked papers. As he did, his fingers briefly brushed against hers, lingering for a split second as if to ensure she had a firm grip. 

“Seriously, though. You should eat something. Something nutritious. It’s not good to push yourself when you’re tired,” he said with a light pat on her arm, his tone genuine rather than scolding, like it was advice he was used to giving to himself. Like he was talking to an old friend.

Ayano accepted the papers, mumbling a quiet, “Thanks.” She didn’t know how to respond to his easy kindness.

He was friendly, but not in the same way Ayano was. His was genuine, not just polite out of necessity.

“No problem,” he said, stepping aside with a lighthearted wave. “Oh, and if you’re heading to the cooking club, tell them Aso says hi. I helped them carry some supplies yesterday, so they owe me a snack or two. Maybe they’ll hook you up.”

Ayano hesitated, watching him walk away with an upbeat stride, as if the whole world was just waiting for him to tackle it.

“Aso…” she repeated quietly to herself. For the first time today, her chest felt just a little bit lighter.

The scent of something sweet wafted through the air as she stepped into the cooking club room. The faint hum of activity filled her ears—soft chatter, the clinking of utensils. It was a comforting atmosphere.

Ayano glanced around, her eyes quickly scanning the space for someone who looked like they were in charge.

“Can I help you with something?”

The voice came from her right, in the kitchen. She turned and found a boy standing there, wiping his hands on a towel. He had a warm smile, his soft mint eyes crinkling slightly as he looked at her.

“I’m here to deliver these forms,” she said flatly, holding up the papers.

“Ah, perfect timing! Those are for me,” he said, stepping forward to take them. “I’m Amao, by the way. Amao Odayaka. And you are?”

It seemed Ayano was learning a lot of new names lately. 

It felt unfamiliar, this sudden wave of introductions. She was used to being the one who approached others, offering small gestures of kindness to build surface-level social connections. 

Never anything too deep, just enough to blend in. But having someone go out of their way to introduce themselves to her first? That was unfamiliar. Strange, even. 

Maybe she’d get used to it eventually.

“Ayano Aishi,” she replied, her tone distant but polite. She opened her mouth to speak, but Amao’s next words stopped her.

“Wait a second. Have you eaten? We just finished baking some cookies. You should try one!”

Before she could even think of refusing, Amao had already turned toward a counter where a tray of freshly baked cookies sat cooling. He carefully selected one and handed it to her with a kind smile.

“They’re still warm,” he said.

Ayano nibbled at the cookie at first, then took a larger bite, the sweetness melting on her tongue and momentarily easing the exhaustion weighing her down. It wasn’t just the flavor that comforted her—it was the way the warmth of the cookie seemed to fill her in a way nothing else had today.

“They’re... good,” she admitted softly, her words nearly lost in the quiet crunch of her next bite.  

Amao’s grin stretched wider, and Ayano didn’t miss how it seemed to practically light up the room. “Thanks! If you ever want to learn how to make them, feel free to stop by the club anytime.”  

Before she knew it, the cookie was gone, devoured faster than she intended. A flicker of gratitude warmed her usually cold expression. Hunger really was the best seasoning. “Maybe I will,” she murmured.

Her eyes drifted to a plate of octodogs sitting on the counter, her gaze lingering a little too long to go unnoticed.

The hunger still gnawed at her, the physical exhaustion still creeping under her skin, and her stomach growled in protest. One cookie, after all, was hardly enough to fill her after a sleepless night and an entire day without food. 

Amao chuckled lightly when he noticed. “Still hungry, huh?” His voice was teasing, but there was an undertone of understanding that Ayano didn’t miss. He picked up the plate of octodogs and held it out to her, his gaze softening. “Here, take them.”

Ayano hesitated, glancing at him and then the food. “Are you sure? Aren’t these supposed to go to the other students?”  

Amao’s easy demeanor didn’t waver. “Don’t worry about it. These are leftovers—we’ve already handed out the rest. You can even finish them if you want,” he said, his tone warm and reassuring.  

In that moment, Ayano realised how starved she truly was—not just for food, but for someone to care, even in such a small way.

“You’re welcome to take a seat as you eat. Go on, it’s fine,” he added.

Ayano paused, looking at Amao for a moment longer. It was the warmth in his eyes, the way he seemed to genuinely care.

For a brief, fleeting moment, she wondered if this was what it felt like to be doted on, if this was what it felt like to have a doting parent fussing over her out of unconditional care.

It wasn’t the kind of care she was used to. Her mother only ever fussed over one thing: pushing her to find her ‘one true love’, nothing more, nothing deeper. Her father, though well-meaning, seemed held back by some invisible wall, unable to truly connect.

A small smile tugged at her lips as she accepted the plate. Barely perceptible, but it was there.

Amao caught the subtle shift in her expression, his gaze lingering longer than it should have. His eyes held hers, unblinking, as if tracing an invisible crack that hinted at something deeper.

It made him wonder just how long she’d been holding that warmth inside.

Meanwhile, Ayano couldn’t help but ask herself if, one day, she’d be able to smile with the same brightness as Aso and Amao did.

Chapter Text

Ayano wandered through the school corridor, the noises of students wrapping up their cleaning duties filling the air.

Most were already headed toward club activities or making their way home, eager to enjoy the rest of the day. 

Ayano, as always, planned to head straight home. The thought of collapsing onto her bed, sinking under the warm comfort of her covers, and drifting off into a nap was all that kept her moving.

At least, it was—until she saw Taro.

He was by the fountain, wiping its surface with deliberate, gentle movements. Ayano’s steps slowed, her tiredness melting away as her heart raced once again in a way she didn’t want it to. Her gaze locked onto him, as if the world had narrowed to just this moment. 

It wasn’t even intentional; her eyes just always had a way of finding him and staying there, her vision softening, the edges blurring into something rosy and dreamlike. 

Even after months of seeing him almost daily, it always felt like the first time. The butterflies, the rush—it never dulled. 

Maybe it wasn’t so bad to just watch. She told herself it was meaningless, a quiet indulgence to keep her feet planted, to stop the darker thoughts from surfacing.

She didn’t need to own him. No, she wasn’t like her mother. She’d learned that much from growing up in a household filled with veiled tension and suffocating obsession. 

But… God, was he handsome.

“Hey, Yan-chan!”

A cheerful voice pulled Ayano abruptly from her thoughts. She stiffened, noticing too late the gentle hand resting on her shoulder. 

Turning, she saw Kokona standing in the doorway of the drama club, her usual bright smile lighting up her face. It was only then Ayano realised she’d been standing just outside the room, lost in her own world.

Kokona was more of an acquaintance than a close friend, someone Ayano had helped out once before.

They shared polite greetings in the hallways and occasionally exchanged favours when needed. Kokona’s warm, open nature often caught others off guard, her kindness so unguarded it almost seemed out of place. 

To Ayano, their connection felt more like a practical arrangement—a simple, mutually beneficial association. 

Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe this was what friendship looked like. 

Ayano couldn’t tell the difference. 

“We’re trying to rehearse for a play,” Kokona said, her voice light and hopeful. “But the lead actress isn’t here. Would you mind filling in for her?”

Ayano blinked, her blank expression betraying her immediate answer: absolutely not. She had no interest in anything other than going home. 

“C’mon, it’ll be fun!” Kokona pressed, clasping her hands together with an almost theatrical excitement. “It’s a play about a serial killer!” She giggled, throwing her hands up in mock fear.

That word. Kill.

The sound of it seemed to ripple through Ayano's mind, raking up fragments of thoughts she didn’t want to revisit: Taro, Osana. Info-kun.

Her mother.

Kill. Eliminate at all costs.

Ayano’s hand twitched at her side. It wasn’t exactly a secret to her what her mother had done to win her father, the unspoken legacy of manipulation and violence she’d left behind. But Ayano wasn’t like her. She refused to be. 

She should say no. She should leave. 

…But for some reason, she found herself saying, “Okay… I’ll help.”

Maybe it was because of Kokona’s persistence, her cheerful tone and hopeful eyes that made saying no feel like more trouble than it was worth. Maybe it was because she didn’t want to seem out of place.

Or maybe, by agreeing to help, Ayano felt like she was holding onto control, proving to herself that she wasn’t like her mother. She wasn’t.

She could stand there, rehearse a play about something as depraved as murder, and still stay grounded, normal. This wasn’t her reality. It wasn’t who she was.

And yet, somewhere deep inside, a faint unease coiled in her stomach. Was she testing herself? Pushing the limits to see if she could handle it? Or was she just lying to herself again?

Kokona beamed. “Yay! Thanks, Yan-chan! Come on, let’s go!”

Ayano followed, her steps deliberate, her thoughts swirling. The idea of a play about a serial killer felt almost too ironic, too close to something she was trying desperately to avoid. But for some reason, she just couldn’t bring herself to back out.

Ayano followed Kokona into the gymnasium, her ears immediately catching the unmistakable sounds of an ongoing drama club rehearsal: booming voices, exaggerated dialogue, and dramatic pauses that seemed to hang in the air longer than necessary.

In the center of the stage stood a boy with chest-length purple hair, styled meticulously into a spiral ponytail held by a rose resting on his shoulder. Crimson eyes burned with intensity as he gestured grandly. 

That had to be Kizano.

Ayano had heard of Kizano. How could she not? His reputation preceded him. She’d caught snippets of his name in her brief chats with Kokona, the admiration in her voice unmistakable.

Kizano was just as full of himself offstage as he was on it, and from the way he effortlessly commanded the spotlight, it was easy to see why.

Kizano delivered his lines with such passion that he could make anyone believe the world was truly about to end. The way he acted, you'd think he was preparing for the final battle of the apocalypse.

To his credit, it wasn’t that the acting wasn’t good—his enunciation was crisp, his projection elegant and flawless—but to Ayano, his passion teetered into the realm of overwhelming.

The scene shifted, and his partner—a girl clutching her script—faltered under his intensity. Her voice wavered as she attempted to match his energy, but the disparity in their skill became painfully obvious.

Kizano sighed, halting the scene mid-sentence. “Stop, stop, stop,” he exclaimed, turning away, throwing his arms up in frustration. He spun back around to face her, an air of princely concern masking his impatience. “What do you think this is, darling? A comedy? A romance? No, it’s a tragedy!” 

He burst into an impromptu lecture, pacing the stage as he critiqued everything from her delivery to her posture. The other students fidgeted under his scrutiny, but no one dared to interrupt him.

Ayano simply watched as Kizano bossed everyone around—even the members assigned to move props in the background. He clearly relished the role of self-appointed director.

Finally, he turned and his eyes landed on Ayano and Kokona backstage. “Ah,” he began, drawing out the syllable. “Kokona, and…?” 

Ayano stared at him, her expression unchanging as she tried to process the whirlwind of extravagance that was Kizano Sunobu. Kokona, however, giggled nervously, clapping her hands together. “Kizano, this is Ayano! She’s here to help with the lead role!”

Kizano’s eyes flicked to Ayano, giving her a quick once-over. Nothing about her stood out. His lips curved into a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Even under his scrutiny, she was… calm, composed. There was no fire, no drama, just a quiet indifference that felt far too normal for his taste. He had seen countless people who lacked that flair—the ones who never made waves, never demanded attention. Ayano was one of those people.

How utterly dull, he thought.

Well, no matter. It was only a rehearsal, after all. She wasn’t even a member of the drama club. Strangely, he didn’t feel his usual irritation toward such mediocrity. Perhaps it was her calmness—so unaffected by his larger-than-life presence—that caught his interest, or maybe he was just in an uncharacteristically forgiving mood today.  

He doubted she’d bring anything remarkable to the stage, and he certainly wasn’t expecting her to dazzle. But, he supposed, everyone deserves their moment under the lights—even the painfully ordinary.

Besides, he thought she was kind of cute. In a quiet, overlooked sort of way. She looked like she didn’t get much sleep, with faint bags under her eyes, giving a certain air to her that he found charming. 

He could let it slide. Just this once. “Hm,” he mused. “Very well. Hand her the script, Kokona.”  

Kizano wasn’t expecting much from her, anyway. In fact, he wasn’t expecting anything at all.

…

It’s just a role. Just a role.

Ayano told herself this over and over as she gripped the prop knife, eyes fixed on the people in front of her, who were obviously waiting for their cue. 

The weight of the blade felt oddly satisfying in her hand, as if it were an extension of herself—something that could finally silence all the noise in her head.

But when she looked at them—really looked—her mind betrayed her. She didn’t see classmates. Their faces contorted, and Ayano thought for a moment that she saw… her.

Osana.

…Just an act. Just a play, she reminded herself. It was nothing personal. 

But as she approached them, something inside her clicked. The world around her blurred, the lights on stage fading into nothingness as the role consumed her.

This… could be an outlet. A place to let it all out, to say and do the things she never could in the real world. 

Suddenly, she wasn't Ayano anymore, and the actors weren’t some random students. She was someone else entirely—someone with a purpose. 

The first 'kill' was swift. Ayano's hand moved before she realised it, driving the knife into her 'victim.' The prop knife struck the padded costume, but in her mind, it was real. She heard Osana's gasp in her head, the disbelief in her eyes as she stumbled back.

Another. Then another. Each strike was harsher, more frenzied, each one erasing the countless nights of frustration, jealousy, and rage Ayano had buried deep inside.

Her yearning for Taro consumed her—those nights when she desperately wished she could trade places with Osana, when she longed to be just another ordinary girl, to have a chance, to feel like she could finally be seen.

She felt her pulse race as she 'killed' them again and again, each fake death dragging her deeper into that dark place she'd been trying to outrun.

When only Kizano remained, Ayano froze. His face morphed. It wasn’t his at all anymore. It was Osana's. 

Just a play. Just a role. 

Right?

She moved closer, slowly, savouring the moment. The prop knife trembled in her hand, the final kill coming with an unsettling calm. Ayano lunged forward, stabbing him cleanly, her movements deliberate, precise.

Her knees pinned him down to the ground as the knife rose and fell, over and over, the rhythm of her attacks bordering on unhinged. Her face contorted, a dark shadow eclipsing her features as her composure unravelled with each plunge of the blade.

Her breath hitched as the fake blood spread across Kizano’s chest, but in her mind, it was Osana crumpled on the ground, her irritating voice finally silenced.

Ayano stood up and giggled, as per the script. It started softly, a fragile sound, but it quickly grew into something wild. The laughter filled the room, echoing off the walls and pulling her back into herself. The haze lifted, and the stage lights returned.

The scene was over.

She seemed to snap back, but the tension in her chest didn't fade. Was this her? Was she really imagining...

Ayano blinked, the cold edge of the knife still in her hand as the world and reality around her came rushing back, her breaths coming in short ragged gasps.

The scene had ended, but her mind was a mess of dark thoughts again—more chaotic than ever before.

What lingered most was regret.

She had lost control, given in to something deep and dangerous, even if it wasn’t real. There had been a fleeting satisfaction, a momentary rush, but now all that remained was a suffocating remorse that churned in her gut.

At that moment, she made a promise to herself. Even though it was just meant to be an act—she would never allow herself to fall so far again. Never would she let that darkness consume her.

Kizano stood frozen, eyes locked on Ayano as she finished her final move, the scene was over but the tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife. He hadn't been prepared for this.

...What on earth had happened to the emotionless girl he had seen just moments ago?

Her performance... It was flawless. But not just in the way of a well-executed role. It was disturbingly real. Her movements had shifted from calculated to... something else entirely—something unsettling.

For the first time on stage, he had felt true fear. He could feel the raw killing intent that radiated off her.

And for the briefest moment, he had found himself forgetting the script entirely.

Kizano wiped at the fake blood staining his chest, smearing it across his costume. Yet, his gaze lingered on Ayano, searching for answers he couldn’t quite articulate.

That... was phenomenal.

He had seen countless actors pour their souls into roles, but Ayano? 

The way she snapped from one 'kill' to the next, it was like she had embraced the darkness in a way that both unnerved him and drew him in at the same time.

A small part of him wondered. How had she managed to make it feel so real? The way she delivered the final blow—he almost thought she wasn’t acting at all.

No, that was absurd. He shook the thought away, chalking it up to the lingering rush of adrenaline from the intense scene. Yet, the sheer depth of her performance left him stunned and utterly speechless.

To say he was impressed would hardly do it justice.

As the rehearsal drew to a close, Ayano’s usual blank expression slipped back into place. The knife in her hand felt heavier now, her grip tightening until her knuckles turned white.

"Yan-chan! That was amazing!" Kokona exclaimed, rushing over in her fake bloodstained costume, her excitement too much to contain.

Ayano simply murmured a soft "thanks," her mind still lost in a haze, the noise around her fading into the background.

Her gaze drifted to Kizano, catching his lingering, dazed stare. For a fleeting moment, their eyes met, his filled with quiet astonishment, hers holding nothing. 

Yet, deep in her chest, something twisted uncomfortably.

The next day unfolded like any other. Ayano attended class, enduring Mido-sensei’s usual oddities, yet her mind remained stuck to the events of yesterday. It clung to her thoughts like a parasite, a disease.

“Hey, quit spacing out. You’re freaking me out,” Osano said, his voice irritated.

They were supposed to be working on their project, but Ayano’s focus was elsewhere, her gaze distant.

“Oh. Sorry,” she replied, snapping out of her trance as her blank expression slipped back into place.

Despite his rough tone, Osano noticed something wasn’t right. His brow furrowed as he studied her face, trying to piece together what was wrong. 

The bell rang, cutting the moment short, but Osano’s concern lingered. Though he acted like he didn’t care, he found himself lingering close as lunch began, subtly trailing behind her to make sure she was okay.

What was her deal?

His eyes flickered to her back. She always looked so calm—too calm, honestly—but today it was different. That emotionless expression of hers had been slipping, just for a second, like something was bothering her.

His thoughts drifted back to the first time he’d noticed her like this.

After school that day, she’d been standing there, staring into space with that same distant, almost flustered look. She was definitely hiding something, he told himself.

Not that he cared or anything, he thought, defensive, almost automatic, as if to protect himself from admitting otherwise. But he cared more than he wanted to admit.

Ayano stepped out of class, her expression as blank as ever. It was already lunchtime, and the usual chatter of students bounced across the halls. 

Osano followed, wavering as he built up the nerve to speak. He hesitated, his steps slowing as he watched her. Maybe he should say something? Ask if she’s okay? The idea felt awkward, foreign, and yet he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that he should do something. Anything.

He quickened his pace, catching up until he was just behind her. His hand hovered near her shoulder, ready to tap it. The words formed in his head: Hey, you wanna eat lunch together or something?

But suddenly, Kokona appeared out of nowhere.

“Yan-chan! You were incredible yesterday!” Her voice was bright, brimming with excitement as she hurried over.

Osano froze mid-step, his hand falling back to his side. His face flushed red as he quickly turned on his heel, retreating in a flustered 180-degree spin before either of them could notice him. 

Idiot, he cursed himself, his heart thudding in his chest. What was he even thinking? 

He told himself he didn’t care at all. Whatever was going on with her, it was none of his business.

Yet as he walked away, the unease wouldn't leave him.

…

“Kizano-kun couldn’t stop talking about you!” Kokona beamed. Kokona’s admiration for Kizano was no secret—her eyes practically sparkled whenever she mentioned him. But the fact that he, of all people, had praised Ayano?

Kokona couldn't believe her ears, and she couldn’t help but admire Ayano, too, for eliciting such a reaction from someone as vain and self-absorbed as him.

But Ayano’s heart only gave an unwelcome lurch at the mention of yesterday. “Is that so?” she replied evenly, her grip tightening slightly on the strap of her bag.

“Yes! You know, you should really join the drama club!” Kokona clung to Ayano’s arm, her enthusiasm unrelenting. “Let’s eat lunch together today!” she chirped, holding up a carefully packed bento. “I made extras!”

Ayano hesitated, but something about Kokona’s warm smile inclined her to accept. “Alright,” she said softly as she allowed herself to be led to the rooftop.

Maybe it would be a nice change, not eating her lunch alone for once.

The rooftop was unusually quiet, save for the faint breeze that rustled Kokona’s purple hair as she chattered about a bunch of random things Ayano wasn’t too bothered to play close attention to. The latest school gossip, members of the drama club, Kizano’s acting skills.

Ayano sat across from her, picking at her lunch absentmindedly. She could feel her focus slipping away.

And then her eyes wandered, drifting past Kokona’s shoulder, landing on a scene that made her stomach twist violently.

Osana and Taro sat together by the wall, their bentos open as they smiled. Osana seemed to say something, her eyes flickering away as a faint blush crept across her cheeks, and Taro’s chuckle followed—a sound too soft, too unfamiliar. The sight pierced Ayano’s chest like a needle threading her worst fears together. 

His laugh, his smile, it was so rare and almost captivating in its simplicity, but…

It wasn’t for Ayano.

It never was.

“Yan-chan?” Kokona’s voice pulled her back. “You okay? You look a little pale.”

Ayano forced a smile, tight and thin. “I’m fine. Just need to use the restroom.”

Without waiting for a response, she rose abruptly, her legs shaky beneath her, and left her lunch untouched.

The distance between the rooftop and the bathroom felt eternal, each step weighed down by the nauseating turbulence in her gut.

In the bathroom, Ayano leaned over the sink, splashing her face with cold water. Her breaths were shallow, uneven, as she stared at her reflection. The girl staring back at her looked the same as always—blank, unreadable. 

But her eyes dropped down to the palm of her hand, where faint red marks lingered. A quiet reminder of how tightly she’d gripped the knife yesterday. She could still feel the weight of the hilt pressing into her skin, her grasp so firm it had nearly etched itself into her flesh.

Her phone buzzed. She didn’t want to look, but she couldn’t resist. 

It was Info-kun, again.

“Are you going to just let that slide? Let Osana slide?”

Ayano's blood curdled. Her head whipped around instinctively, scanning the empty bathroom. Was he watching her? Could he see everything that just happened?

Another buzz.

“You looked around just now, didn’t you? Relax. I don’t have cameras in the girls’ bathroom. I’m not that twisted.” 

A fucking instigator, that’s what he was.

Her stomach turned again, bile rising in her throat. She gritted her teeth, fighting the nausea, and shoved her phone back into her pocket. It buzzed again, two times, but she ignored it both times, the vibration feeling like a distant reminder of her own helplessness.

She gripped the sink tightly, her knuckles going pale, and forced herself to breathe. She wouldn’t do this. She wouldn’t become her mother. Not ever.

But the thought lingered, haunting and persistent, like a shadow she couldn’t outrun.

Once again, the sensation returned. That heavy, stinging pressure behind her eyes. She wanted to cry, to let everything spill out in one unrelenting stream of tears. 

But no matter how much she willed it, the tears refused to fall. It was as if they were locked away, unreachable, leaving her with nothing but the suffocating weight in her chest and the nauseating churn in her stomach. 

She waited, hoping the urge to vomit would subside, but the ache in her heart remained, relentless and unyielding. 

Ayano loathed this. She despised how something so trivial could provoke such a strong reaction in her.

There was a time when she believed it was a privilege—finally, a chance to feel emotions, to experience them, even if they were negative, and even if it was because of Taro.

But now, all she felt was resentment. Why now? Why couldn’t she just remain emotionless, like she had always been? Why couldn’t she just carry on, as if nothing had changed, the way she’d done her whole life?

The lunch bell rang, a reminder that the world hadn’t paused for her. Ayano didn’t move. She couldn’t bear to face anyone right now, not with the weight of this stirring in her chest. Instead, she stayed put, the cool air of the bathroom her only companion.

Minutes seemed to stretch into eternity before she finally ventured outside. The halls were empty, silent except for the distant echo of muffled voices from inside the classrooms. Ayano knew exactly where she was going.

Anywhere but class.

She waited intentionally, timing her steps carefully. The delinquents always lingered around the incinerator during lunch, but even they eventually made their way to class, albeit late. 

The incinerator area was ideal for skipping—it was secluded, tucked away where teachers rarely bothered to check.

With that in mind, Ayano descended the stairs, her footsteps light and measured, trying to push down the thoughts threatening to consume her whole.

The area was as grim as she expected, the pungent scent of burnt trash thick in the air. Ayano stepped through the gate and let the seclusion wrap around her like a blanket. This was what she needed—an escape from the relentless noise in her mind and the ceaseless demands of the day.

She spotted a piece of discarded cardboard leaning against the fence and slid down against it, knees pulled to her chest.

Her gaze fixed on the cracked concrete beneath her as her thoughts swirled. She had come here to either ignore them or maybe sort them out in peace, but here they came, crashing in violently.

For a fleeting moment, she could almost hear Taro’s laugh ringing in her ears again. It was soft, warm, and full of a joy she couldn’t reach. She imagined his smile directed at her, the way his eyes might crinkle at the edges if she were the one to make him happy.

But the fantasy dissolved as quickly as it had formed.

Reality returned with a crushing weight, the kind that settled deep in her chest. As she leaned back, the echo of his laughter faded, and his imagined smile disappeared. In the deafening silence, one truth remained.

She was alone. Again.

Ayano buried her face in her knees, exhaling. Time seemed to slow in this quiet corner. Each breath she took felt heavier and lonelier than the last, the silence wrapping around her like a suffocating cocoon. 

Then suddenly, the sound of a shoe scraping against the ground broke through her isolation.

Her head snapped up, her expression narrowing as her gaze locked onto the source. Someone stood right in front of her. 

The figure towered over her, his broad frame casting a shadow that matched his imposing presence. Unkempt blonde hair framed his sharp features, while a jagged scar ran across his left cheek, adding to his rugged appearance. 

Bandages wrapped around his muscular arms and a tattered black jacket draped loosely over his shoulders. His hands remained casually tucked into his pockets as his brown eyes met hers, steady and appraising.

Osoro had only come here out of habit, planning to kill time in the desolate space he usually claimed for himself. That was until the sight of a lone figure sat against the fence had caught his attention. Her black ponytail had been the first thing he noticed, poking out from behind the cardboard and bobbing as it carried the breeze in the air.

He’d approached cautiously, half-expecting her to be crying. What else would a girl be doing here, hidden away, head buried in her knees?

Fights and intimidation were things he could handle without a second thought, but a crying girl? That was uncharted territory.

But when she’d finally looked up, she wasn’t crying. Her face was dry and—more than that—eerily neutral. There was no sadness, no anger, not even a flicker of discomfort.

“You know,” Osoro began, his voice low and gravelly, carrying the weight of someone who didn’t need to repeat himself. “Most people don’t come here unless they’re looking for trouble.” His tone wasn’t a threat—just a plain observation.

Ayano didn’t move, didn’t flinch. Her eyes stayed locked on his, her expression unreadable. “I didn’t think any delinquents would still be here,” she replied frankly, her tone flat. “I can leave if you want.”

Osoro stared at her, silent for a bit too long. 

She wasn’t scared at all. 

That alone was unusual. His presence usually sent people scattering without him needing to do or say a thing. Intimidation was second nature to him, a weapon he rarely had to draw fully.

But this girl—frail-looking, emotionless—didn’t even blink. She just sat there, meeting his gaze like she was studying him as much as he was studying her.

He wasn’t used to this. Most people either cowered or scrambled to get away as soon as they laid eyes on him. Even the tougher ones tried to act like they didn’t care, but their nerves always betrayed them in the end.

And he recognised her. She was the one who’d managed to make his right hand man falter, just for a second. The one who’d drawn a glare from Umeji, sharp and deliberate, as though she’d gotten under his skin without even trying.

She defied all expectations. That alone made him want her to stay.

But as much as her face was a mask of calm, Osoro couldn’t help noticing the small tells. The way her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. The faint tremor in her shoulders. The way she held herself like she was trying to stay grounded while the world threatened to pull her under.

The air wasn’t cold, but she shivered anyway. It wasn’t fear—no, he would’ve seen that a mile away—but there was something there. A flicker of vulnerability that was buried beneath her blank expression.

“...No, you don’t have to leave,” he finally said, his voice steady.  

Ayano blinked, slightly surprised by the response. She expected him to claim his space, maybe tell her to get lost like that other guy had. 

Instead, he let out a quiet breath and began to lower himself to the ground beside her, leaning back against the fence. He kept a respectful distance—close enough for his presence to be felt, but far enough not to disturb hers.  

He didn’t say anything after that. He didn’t feel the need to.  

Ayano watched him carefully. He wasn’t trying to intimidate her or establish dominance like she might’ve expected from someone with his rough exterior. No, he simply sat there, silent and unmoving. It was strange, unsettling almost. 

And yet, she found herself oddly grateful.  

His arrival felt strangely well-timed, like some unseen force had decided to intervene. She didn’t know his name, didn’t understand why he’d chosen to sit there next to her instead of walking away, but something about his quiet presence grounded her. 

The thoughts that had spiraled out of control just moments ago began to slow.

She tilted her head back, her gaze drifting to the clear blue sky above. The only sounds between them were the soft, steady rhythm of their breaths, blending into the stillness. It was quiet—completely, comfortably quiet.  

For the first time in what felt like forever, her stomach began to settle, the storm in her mind clearing, too.

He didn’t prod or question her. He didn’t seem to care why she was there, or what she was thinking.

He was simply there.

And that, in its simplicity, was enough to start easing the weight pressing against her chest.  

He just existed beside her, steady and unmoving.

As if to remind her that she wasn’t truly alone.  

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Slowly, Ayano’s grip on her knees loosened. Her trembling stilled. She inhaled, letting the air fill her lungs, and exhaled softly, the tension in her body melting just slightly.  

She didn’t speak. He didn’t either. Neither of them had to. For now, the silence said everything.

Chapter Text

The bell rang, its shrill tone reverberating through the quiet incinerator area. 

Ayano startled slightly, pulled back to reality. It was already cleaning time.

Ayano had come here for solitude, the secluded area offering her a place away from all the noise, both from school and her own mind.

It wasn’t a place where people lingered, which was exactly why she thought it’d be the perfect place to skip class.

But she wasn’t alone, her senses subtly attuned to the quiet presence of the person nearby.

Her thoughts felt a little clearer now, less chaotic than before. Somehow, the mysterious existence of the boy beside her had steadied her. He hadn’t said much—barely anything, really—but that had been enough to quell her unease.

Still, she had to leave eventually.

Pushing herself up, she dusted off her skirt and turned toward the boy still seated on the ground. “I’m going now,” she said, brushing her hair out of her face.

Before she could take a step, his gravelly voice stopped her. “Wait.”

Ayano glanced back, looking over her shoulder.

“...What’s your name?” he asked, his voice low and reluctant, as though asking was out of character for him.

“Ayano,” she answered simply. “Ayano Aishi.”

He nodded slowly, committing it to memory. “Osoro,” he replied back, his tone carefully neutral. 

The name rang a bell, but Ayano’s expression didn’t shift much. “Osoro Shidesu?” she asked, her tone more contemplative than startled.

Osoro paused. Had she only just recognised him? For some reason, the thought made him feel uneasy—maybe that explained why she hadn’t been scared of him earlier. But now... now, he couldn’t help feeling a pang of disappointment.

He met her gaze and nodded, bracing himself for the reaction he was used to—fear, disdain, grovelling. 

“You’re the leader of the delinquents,” she stated, her voice matter-of-fact. 

Instead, her calmness left him momentarily unbalanced.

Her tone threw him all the way off, and a flicker of uncertainty crossed his face. Most people would have run the moment they connected his name to his reputation. 

But Ayano didn’t move. She didn’t flinch or shrink away. If anything, her expression softened.

Osoro wasn’t someone she planned on meeting, ever, but now she thought he wasn’t really as bad as the rumours said. 

“Not what I expected,” she said, almost to herself.

Osoro blinked. Not what she expected? What was that supposed to mean? And he could swear he caught the faintest flicker of amusement in her eyes.

“Are you… not even a little scared of me?” he asked.

“Should I be?” 

He stared at her for a second before letting out a faint, almost incredulous chuckle. She was so frank. It was weirdly refreshing. “Huh.”

“I should go,” Ayano said, turning away again. She glanced toward the gate. “Your gang’s probably going to be back soon.”

“Ah, hold on.” He hesitated, the words catching in his throat. She may look fine right now, but her earlier body language had been... off.  
 
Finally, he managed, “Are you… okay?” he asked. The question felt foreign on his tongue, and it showed. His voice was unsure, awkward even.

Ayano blinked, having expected anything but that question. But coming from him, it felt strangely genuine. 

After a moment, she allowed herself the faintest smile to flicker across her features. “Yeah,” she said simply.  “Thanks to you.”

Osoro cleared his throat, looking away as he felt his heart start to thump a little louder in his chest.

“Okay. That’s, uh… That’s good.”

“Bye now,” she said, her tone light as she turned and walked away without another glance.

This time, he didn’t stop her. He stayed where he was, watching until she disappeared around the corner. Then he leaned back against the fence, exhaling deeply.

He hadn’t meant to stay so long.

Something about her—sitting there, surrounded by a silence heavier than any he’d ever known—had stopped him from walking away. 

Although she looked frail, from the way she didn’t shy away from his presence, she didn’t seem like the type to need saving. But for some reason, he stayed anyway. And he was glad he did.

She hadn’t run, hadn’t looked at him rigid with fear like everyone else. And that was a first.

Osoro ran a hand through his hair, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Definitely not what I expected,” he muttered, echoing her earlier words.

And he meant it.

…

As Ayano exited the incinerator area and reentered the school building, she glanced at her phone.  

3:36 PM. Still about half an hour until school ended.  

Her eyes lingered on the screen as she climbed the stairs, catching sight of two unread notifications. Right—Info-kun had messaged her two more times while she’d been in the bathroom earlier. 

She hadn’t bothered to check them then and wasn’t exactly eager to now. With a sigh, she tapped the notification.  

The first message was nothing surprising.  

“Why do you even bother pretending to be okay, Ayano? You’re broken, and you’ll always be broken.”  

Her thumb hovered over the screen as she scoffed, ready to turn her phone off, but the second message stopped her.  

“Let me know if you want to talk about it.”

It wasn’t much. Still rude. Harsh, even. But buried beneath the sharpness was something she couldn’t ignore—an awkward, uncomfortable attempt at a sincere offer, disguised the only way Info-kun knew how.  

Her lips twitched in a faint smirk before she rolled her eyes and dryly reacted to his text with the thumbs-up emoji. Then, without hesitation, she went into her contacts and blocked him.  

Not that it would do much good.  

An instant reply, the instant buzz in her hand, confirmed as much: 

“Is that a yes?”

She shoved her phone back into her pocket. She knew blocking him would be futile, but it felt better than nothing.  

By the time she reached her classroom door, she had managed to push it from her mind. Sliding the door open quietly, she slipped in, keeping her presence small.  

The classroom bustled with the sounds of cleaning: chairs scraping, windows being wiped, and rags dragging across chalkboards. No one noticed her arrival, which suited her just fine.  

Ayano went straight to her desk, wordlessly packing her textbooks into her bag. It wasn’t like anyone would notice her absence, anyway—  

“You idiot. Where were you?”  

Her stomach sank. 

Shit. The project.  

Ayano turned slowly, her eyes landing on Osano, who stood with a rag in hand, his expression a mix of exasperation and frustration.  

“You seriously left me to work on the project alone? I—”  

Before he could finish, Ayano bowed deeply, her expression plastering on the picture of solemn apology.  

“I’m sorry. I’ll make up for the time I wasted, I promise.”

Osano faltered, his words dying in his throat as his face flushed red. He waved his arms awkwardly.  

“Wha—okay, okay! I get it! Just... lift your head, already.”  

Straightening, Ayano met his gaze with a calm expression. Osano’s irritation wavered. For whatever reason, he couldn’t really find it in himself to be mad at her. “You’d better make up for it.” He sighed and handed her the rag in his hand. “Here.”  

She took the cloth with a nod of thanks and began wiping down the windows beside him.

The quiet rhythm of cleaning settled between them until another voice, low and sultry, cut through the air behind her.

”So, you skip class, but not cleaning duty?”

Her hand froze mid-wipe. That unmistakable tone could only belong to one person.

Shit. Times two.  

“…Mido-sensei.” Ayano turned around slowly, meeting his gaze. He stood there, arms crossed, his expression expectant as if waiting for an explanation.

What now? Her mind scrambled for something—anything—to say. Should she lie? Make up an excuse? Maybe grovel and apologise? 

But before she could decide, he spoke first. “I hope you know that I take skipping very seriously,” Mido-sensei said, his tone oddly smooth, as if he wasn’t really scolding her at all. “I’ll need to speak with you after the next lesson.”

“I understand,” Ayano replied, giving a quick bow before going back to Osano and returning to wiping the window.

It wasn’t a terrible outcome. At least she had some time to come up with a solid excuse before facing him again. But as she continued cleaning, Osano’s voice broke the silence, quiet enough so only Ayano could hear. 

“You shouldn’t have skipped,” he murmured, scrubbing the window sill beside her with a slightly concerned look. “I… I have a bad feeling about him. The substitute.”

Ayano considered his words for a moment. She could understand where he was coming from—Mido-sensei did have a strange vibe. But still, at the end of the day, he was a teacher hired at a prestigious school like this one. Nothing to worry about. “It’ll be fine,” she replied with a shrug.

“What did he say to you?” Osano asked, his voice laced with curiosity.

“Just that I'll have to have a talk with him after the next lesson,” Ayano said, her tone casual. “It’s only natural. I did skip the whole period, after all—”

“What?! A talk—” Osano quickly hushed himself, glancing around. “A talk? Alone?”

Ayano deadpanned at him. "Yeah, alone." She resumed wiping the window, her movements slow and deliberate.

Osano’s expression didn’t relax. “You’re taking this way too calmly. That guy—something about him doesn’t sit right with me.”

Ayano sighed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she looked over at him. “You’re just being paranoid. Besides, it’s not like I have a choice. I’ll talk to him, make up some excuse, get it over with, and that’ll be that.”

Osano eyed her for a moment, as if weighing her words. "Just... be careful, okay?" His voice had softened, the concern creeping through his usual bluntness.

“I will.”

Cleaning time had come to a close, and Ayano turned the corner of the school corridor, her heart racing as she purposefully avoided the drama room. 

She could feel the weight of her footsteps, the memory of the rehearsal and the lunch and everything that happened still hovering over her like a cloud. 

This time, she would head straight home—the decision was final in her mind as her pace quickened, her direction set to the school gate.

But just as she was about to round the next corner, she almost collided with someone. Kokona’s hand shot out to steady herself, and Ayano’s gaze met her wide, curious eyes.

Sigh. Perfect. Just perfect.

“Yan-chan!” Kokona’s voice was chipper but tinged with concern. “Where were you during lunch? You ran off to the bathroom and never came back. I was so worried!” 

Ayano instinctively took a step back, avoiding eye contact. “Oh, it’s nothing. I just didn’t feel good,” she said, her tone casual.

Kokona’s face fell slightly, and her hands immediately went to her chest as if she were genuinely distressed. “I’m so sorry! I thought it might’ve been the extra food I gave you from my bento... Was it too much? Did you not like it? I didn’t mean to make you sick...”

Ayano blinked, taken aback by how quickly Kokona jumped to conclusions. “No, it’s okay,” she replied quickly. “The bento was fine. It wasn’t that.”

Kokona’s face brightened a little, but her gaze was still filled with concern. “Phew… I’m glad... but, anyway, if you don’t mind me asking, would you want to come help out with the drama club again? We could really use an extra pair of hands, and it’d be fun!”

Whoa. What a quick change of topic.

Ayano hesitated for a moment, running her fingers through her hair. “I... uh…” She’d learned her lesson last time. No more drama, no more rehearsals. None of that. She racked her brains for the first excuse she could think of. 

“I’m actually heading to the cooking club,” she lied quickly, hoping to brush the situation off. 

But Kokona’s eyes lit up, her smile only widening. “Really? I’m actually going there too! I’m just dropping something off for Saki. Let’s go together!”

Ayano froze for a moment. She hadn’t expected that, and now she found herself in an awkward position. 

“Oh... well, I... guess I’ll go with you then,” Ayano muttered, her plans to head home slipping right through her fingers.

Nothing seemed to be going as planned lately.

Kokona beamed, oblivious to the fact that Ayano had no choice in the matter now. “Yay! I’m sure Saki would love to see you, too.” 

Ayano exhaled softly, resigned to the fact that her route home would have to wait. 

…

As the pair stepped into the cooking club’s cozy, aromatic space, they were immediately greeted by Saki’s cheery voice. 

“Oh, Kokona! And Ayano! Hi there!” Saki waved enthusiastically from where she was organising ingredients. 

Kokona handed over whatever she’d come to deliver, exchanged a few kind words with her best friend, and gave Ayano a quick goodbye before leaving.

Left alone with the remaining club members, Ayano’s gaze landed on Amao in the kitchen. He was chopping vegetables at one of the counters, but when he looked up and spotted her, his face lit up with a warm, welcoming smile. 

“Back again, Ayano?” Amao asked, his voice kind and easygoing. 

That smile made her shoulders relax ever so slightly. She hadn’t even realised how tense she’d been until now. Of course, she wasn’t about to tell him the real reason she was there. 

“I... was hungry,” she said simply. It wasn’t entirely a lie. She’d barely touched her lunch earlier, her appetite buried beneath the day’s whirlwind of events.

Amao’s eyes lit up at her words, his hand pausing mid-chop. “Hungry, huh?” His lips curled into a broad grin, the kind that reached his eyes and softened his whole face. “That’s great! Sit down, sit down.” He waved her toward a nearby chair, his movements lively and fluid, as though already energised by the prospect.

“I’ll whip something up for you,” he added, his voice brimming with enthusiasm.

He didn’t just say it—he meant it. The excitement in his tone was unmissable, like a painter who’d just been handed a blank canvas. As Ayano hesitated, he chuckled softly, his gaze warm. “I just love cooking for someone with an appetite. I did say you could stop by anytime, didn’t I?”

Ayano was surprised by his enthusiasm, but she complied, quietly taking a seat by the counter. Amao moved to the fridge, effortlessly gathering ingredients while humming softly. 

The sound was oddly calming, and Ayano found herself unwinding as she watched him work.

…

Not long after, Amao set a plate of steaming food in front of her. “Here you go,” he said, his voice brimming with pride. “Dig in.”

Ayano picked up a fork and took a tentative bite. Her eyes widened slightly at the burst of flavor. It was good—really good. She didn’t know why she was surprised, but somehow it was even better than the first time she’d tried his food. 

Her mother used to tell her all the time that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Back then, Ayano never put much stock in those words. But sitting here now, with the warmth of a meal prepared just for her spreading through her chest, she felt like she was starting to understand.

Except, of course, she wasn’t a man, and she wasn’t the one making the food. 

She glanced up at Amao and saw that he was watching her with a hopeful expression.

“It’s... really good,” Ayano said quietly, her tone softer than usual.

Amao’s grin widened, his chest swelling with happiness. “I’m glad you like it,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of satisfaction. The way his gaze lingered and the faint flush in his cheeks spoke volumes: nothing made him happier than seeing someone enjoy food he had prepared.

Or maybe it wasn’t just anyone’s approval that mattered—it was hers. 

Seeing Ayano, a girl whose face rarely gave away anything, letting her guard slip just enough to show even the smallest hint of enjoyment was something special.

Even her faint smile didn’t go unnoticed by him. For Amao, that tiny expression felt like the biggest compliment in the world.

For a moment, the two of them sat in comfortable silence. Amao simply watched her eat with a smile on his face, and though Ayano was usually guarded, the simple joy of a well-prepared meal eased her walls. 

Ayano finished the last bite, carefully placing the utensils down and rising from her seat. “Thank you for the meal, Amao. I need to head home now, but I really owe you. For both this time and before.”

Amao waved it off with a light chuckle, his smile unwavering. “What? No, no, not at all! I did it because I wanted to. But…” He leaned in slightly, his tone teasing. "If you really feel like you owe me, you could join the club. That'd be enough for me."

Ayano hesitated for a moment, then nodded, her voice soft. “I’ll definitely think about it...Thank you.”  

His smile lingered, watching her as she made her way to the door. “Anytime, Ayano. Come by again if you’re ever hungry.”  

…

The cooking club continued to bustle with activity long after Ayano had left, the savoury aroma of freshly baked bread and simmering soups filling the air. Members chatted and laughed, busying themselves with their recipes. 

But then, the door swung open with a jarring creak, and the energy inside faltered for just a moment. Kizano stepped in, his gaze cutting through the atmosphere like a knife. 

Amao, always the first to notice anything amiss, turned with a practiced smile, his demeanor calm but polite. “Kizano,” he said, greeting him as if he hadn’t already guessed the encounter would be less than friendly. “What brings you here?”

Kizano’s lips curled into an exaggerated grin, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Ah, cooking boy,” he drawled, letting the words hang in the air. “Could you tell me where I might find the flour?”

Kizano paused. His eyes briefly scanned Amao’s mint-green apron, his gaze lingering in a mockery of admiration. “Now, that is a fine-looking apron. Truly sensational.” The compliment—if it could even be called that—was more a jibe than anything genuine.

Amao’s smile tightened, though he kept his composure. “What are you really doing here, Kizano?”

Kizano picked up two bags of flour from the counter and began inspecting them with an exaggerated seriousness, clearly relishing the moment.

“Well, to be honest, there’s something I wanted to ask you.”

His voice oozed with feigned innocence as he casually compared the bags. “In your professional opinion, which one of these would make my cakes fluffier?” 

Amao fought the urge to sigh. Kizano was as insufferable as ever. The two were in the same class, and their interactions were a constant source of friction. "You came all the way here for flour?" he asked incredulously.

“Oh, no, I’m here for something much sweeter.” Kizano replied smoothly, his eyes flicking to Amao’s. “Where’s Ayano?”

That caught Amao off guard. His expression faltered for a split second, the mention of her name causing his smile to slip. "What?" he asked, his tone more guarded now. Amao was a patient man, but now, he felt his patience beginning to fade away.

Kizano always saw Amao as weak, indecisive—a pushover too eager to please. Amao, on the other hand, found Kizano overbearingly arrogant, someone who thrived on attention and drama. He could handle Kizano’s mocking comments, he’d grown used to hearing the same things again and again.

But hearing that Kizano knew Ayano? For some reason, that didn’t sit right with him. “What for?”

Kizano’s smirk widened. “You know, the play. Romeo and Juliet.”

Amao furrowed his brow, clearly not following. “Yeah, what about it?”

Kizano leaned in, his voice a low whisper, “I’m Romeo.” He let that hang in the air, simmering, his words a slow, deliberate drawl. “She’s Juliet.”

Amao blinked, stunned into silence for a moment. “…And does Ayano know about this?” 

Kizano’s answer was a dismissive wave, as though the thought didn’t even matter. “Well, no, but it doesn’t change the fact. She just doesn’t know yet, is all.”

He straightened up, shifting the flour bags to the side, before looking around the room. “Kokona told me Ayano would be here today. Guess I wasted my time.”

Amao’s patience, already fraying, began to wear thin. He clenched his jaw but kept his voice steady. “If you have no real reason for being here, I think you should leave.”

Kizano raised a brow, clearly not fazed. “Fine,” he said, a hint of smug satisfaction creeping into his voice. “But don’t think for a second that Ayano’s going to join your little club. She’s meant to be in mine, the drama club. It’s where she belongs.”

Amao’s expression hardened, his smile finally gone. “She can decide that for herself, Kizano.”

As Ayano walked back home, her taste buds remained preoccupied with the warmth of the meal. 

However, the moment she stepped into her own kitchen, reality pulled her back.

Opening the cabinets, she frowned. The shelves were sparse, the remaining items barely enough to scrape by for the next few days. Her parents’ allowance wouldn’t cover a proper restock—not with the current prices. 

Damn inflation. She leaned against the counter, deliberating. There was no avoiding it.

Ayano quickly changed out of her school uniform, grabbed her bag, and headed to town. She needed to figure things out—and fast. If she was going to make it work, finding a job was the first step.  

She stopped by a gift shop, then a convenience store, a manga shop, and even a hardware store. But everywhere she went, the answer was the same: “We’re not hiring.” Her frustration built with each rejection.  

Finally, she found herself standing in front of a small, quaint hair salon, the sign swaying slightly in the evening breeze. 

The notion of asking about a job in a place she had no experience in felt almost absurd. She had no idea about cutting hair, and when it came to her own styling, she stuck to the basics—either leaving it loose or tying it in a ponytail.

But she was running out of choices, and the thought of walking away without even trying to inquire gnawed at her. 

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to just ask.

Ayano stepped inside, the warm air of the salon a sharp contrast to the cold street outside.

“Oh, hello there, Ayano! How’s your mother?” The cheerful tone of the clerk’s voice broke through the quiet hum of the room, drawing Ayano’s attention.

Oh.

Ayano froze for a split second, her heart skipping a beat at the mention of her mother. 

She’d completely forgotten about the woman who worked here, the one who’d always greeted her with kindness when she was just a child.

The familiarity of it all hit her like a ton of bricks, and the weight of that memory settled heavily in her chest, a reminder of things she’d rather leave buried in the past.

Her smile was tight, forced, and it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “She’s fine. Thanks for asking,” she replied, her voice quieter than she had intended.

It still felt strange hearing someone speak so casually about her mother, as if everything were normal—something Ayano hadn’t felt in a long time.

The clerk smiled warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “So, are you here for a haircut? Or… are you here for some… tips?” Her voice held a hint of something deeper, an unspoken meaning that sent a chill running down Ayano’s spine. 

The woman’s gaze darkened slightly, and Ayano couldn’t help but remember the first time her mother had brought her here, explaining that if she ever needed help with anything, this woman could assist.

Ayano knew exactly what ‘help’ meant to her mother—and she hated it.

“No, no. I was just going to ask if you were hiring. But never mind. I don’t know anything about cutting hair, anyway,” Ayano said quickly, her words coming out slightly dismissive.

The clerk’s expression softened, but there was a strange undercurrent to it. “That’s a shame. Well, you’re welcome anytime, dear!” Her voice held a nostalgic warmth, but it only made Ayano’s skin crawl. 

Ayano gave a curt nod before turning and leaving the salon, the tightness in her chest refusing to ease. Outside, she paused to take a deep breath, the cool evening air doing little to calm her racing thoughts.

She was ready to give up and head home when something caught her eye.

Right next door to the salon was a cafe—and on the front door, in bold red letters, hung a sign that read, “We’re Hiring”.  

Ayano blinked, internally facepalming. Seriously? How did she miss that? She’d wasted so much time wandering around, only for an opportunity to be right there all along.

But as her gaze lingered on the cafe, she noticed something else. Standing out front was a pink-haired girl dressed in a frilly maid costume, energetically waving at a passerby. She caught sight of Ayano and beamed.  

“Hi there! Are you interested in coming in?” the girl asked cheerfully, her voice dripping with practiced enthusiasm.

So it wasn’t just an ordinary cafe. It was a maid cafe.

Ayano hesitated. A cafe job wasn’t the worst idea—it was familiar, straightforward. But the maid costume was another matter entirely. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she weighed her options. But she was running out of choices, and a job was a job, right? It was just a uniform, she told herself. 

With a resigned sigh, Ayano stepped toward the cafe.

The moment Ayano had stepped inside, she struggled to suppress a sigh. The striped pink wallpaper, frilly curtains, and cheerful music were an assault on her senses. Her gaze swept over the room, taking in the tiny cakes on display and the employees flitting around in maid costumes.

Ridiculous. That was the first word that came to mind.

But the customers didn’t seem to think so. They were all smiles, chatting animatedly with the staff, completely absorbed in the cafe’s atmosphere. Ayano’s lips twitched—was this really what people spent money on?

The girl in the maid costume waved her over to the counter with the same bubbly energy, introducing her to the manager—an older woman with a calculating gaze and an air of authority.

Her shoulders relaxed slightly. Ridiculous or not, if this place paid well, she could endure it.

The manager’s enthusiasm was immediate. “You’re here about the job, I assume?”  

“Yes, I am,” Ayano replied flatly.

The manager’s eyes roamed over Ayano, studying her closely—perhaps a little too closely. Ayano stood still under the scrutiny, her neutral expression unchanging.

“You’re pretty,” the manager began, tilting her head slightly. “Soft features. Pale skin. Slim figure.” She smiled approvingly. “Okay, you’re hired.”

Ayano blinked, unsure if she’d heard correctly.

…Just like that?

The manager shrugged, completely unfazed. “You seem a little... emotionless. But that could be your charm. Customers like cold, mysterious types.”

Ayano struggled to process the statement.  “...Okay,” she said. “So, when can I start?”

“Right now.”  

“Huh?” Ayano’s deadpan expression cracked for a split second, her confusion breaking through.

The manager clapped her hands together. “We’ll get you dressed up and show you the ropes right away. You’re going to be a great addition to the team, I can feel it!”  

…

The pink-haired maid from earlier led Ayano into the backroom, where rows of neatly hung maid outfits filled the walls. She handed Ayano a crisp black-and-white one.  

"Here you go. Get changed, and I’ll go over everything," She said with a cheerful smile.

Ayano took the uniform without a word, slipping into a nearby changing stall. When she emerged, the girl clapped her hands together.

"Aw, you look adorable! Oh, by the way, you can call me Saku-chan," she said, practically bouncing with enthusiasm as she led Ayano back out to the front.

Ayano tilted her head slightly. "As in, cherry blossoms?"  

"Yep! But that’s just my nickname. In maid cafes, we don’t use real names. You can pick one too—your favorite food, flower, even an anime character. It’s part of the experience!"  

"Just call me Yan-chan."  

Saku-chan paused, then grinned. "Straightforward enough. Perfect! Yan-chan it is."  

She went on to explain the basics: how to greet customers, the proper etiquette, and the importance of staying in character.  

“When someone comes in, you say, ‘Welcome home, Master,’ or, ‘Welcome home, My Lady.’ It’s all about making them feel special,” Saku-chan said, clasping her hands like she was delivering a heartfelt lecture.  

Ayano frowned slightly. It felt awkward, but she nodded. "Understood."

As if on cue, the bell above the cafe door jingled, announcing the arrival of two male students, still in their school uniforms. Ayano tensed instinctively, while Saku-chan’s face lit up with a welcoming smile.

Ayano let out a small breath of relief. At least it wasn’t anyone from Akademi.

”Here we go! Just follow my lead,” Saku-chan whispered before stepping forward with the practiced grace of a seasoned pro.

The boys scanned the cafe and immediately perked up when they spotted her. “Saku-chan! There you are! We were hoping for you today.”  

Saku-chan giggled, folding her hands in front of her apron. “Aw, you’re so sweet! But,” she turned, gesturing toward Ayano, “today we’ve got a new maid! This is Yan-chan!”  

Their attention shifted to Ayano, their gazes scanning her.  

"A new maid?" one of them said, elbowing his friend. "She looks... serious.”

Saku-chan shot Ayano a playful nudge. “Go ahead! Greet them like I taught you.”  

Ayano straightened her posture, her expression neutral as she dipped into a polite bow. Her tone was calm and measured, utterly devoid of the bubbly enthusiasm Saku-chan had demonstrated. “Welcome home, Masters.”  

She cringed internally, but quickly reminded herself that she couldn’t afford to let it show—she needed the money.

For a moment, the guys hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances. They were clearly more accustomed to Saku-chan’s lively energy. But something shifted—curiosity replaced their initial reluctance.  

“She’s nothing like Saku-chan, but,” one of them muttered, leaning closer to his friend. “She’s… kinda cool.”

“Yeah, totally,” his friend replied. “She’s got that kuudere vibe or whatever. It works.”

“Right? Her and Saku-chan together are lowkey reminding me of Homura and Madoka.”

Ayano didn’t quite follow what they were saying—it felt like they were speaking in a completely different language. Still, her response was calm and steady. “Thank you.” Without missing a beat, she gestured toward a nearby table. “This way, please.”

They followed her, still whispering among themselves, clearly intrigued. Once seated, they leaned in, smirking as they tried to draw a reaction from her.  

“Hey, Yan-chan,” one of them said, resting his chin on his palm. “Do you ever smile? Just once? C’mon, let’s see it!”  

The other chimed in, grinning. “Yeah, I bet it’s super cute. Give us a little something, huh?”  

Ayano blinked, her face unchanging. “No.”  

Her deadpan delivery left them momentarily stunned before laughter erupted across the table. Saku-chan, standing nearby, barely stifled a laugh herself as she stepped in to take their orders.  

"Bro, she’s so nonchalant," one of them said between chuckles. 

“Yo, Yan-chan,” the other one called out, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. “So, you won’t even smile for us. What’s next? Gonna challenge us to a duel?”

Ayano tilted her head, her expression blank. “I’d win.”

They laughed again, one of them nearly choking on his drink. “Dude, Saku-chan never talks like this.”

Saku-chan, who was clearing plates at a nearby table, gasped dramatically, feigning offence. “Are you saying I’m boring?” She turned to Ayano, placing a hand over her heart. “Yan-chan, you’re stealing my fans!”

By the end of their meal, the guys were hooked, turning their attempts to make Ayano react into a game they were determined to win. Ayano, meanwhile, observed them quietly, her expression unshaken but her mind racing with questions about how she’d unintentionally captivated them.  

Perhaps, she thought, this was what the manager meant earlier—though she still wasn’t quite sure what her ‘charm’ was supposed to be.

…

As the shift drew to a close, Ayano felt drained. Dealing with customers had been tiring, but not in the way she’d anticipated. She hadn’t needed to plaster on a fake smile or overextend herself with excessive politeness. 

If anything, the manager seemed to encourage Ayano’s aloof demeanor, framing it as part of her appeal. 

And so she did exactly that. She let her blunt, unfiltered thoughts slip out—responses she would normally suppress for the sake of politeness. To her surprise, the customers seemed to love it. They laughed, leaned in, and ate up every deadpan remark like it was part of some elaborate act.

Ayano was baffled. Who knew being herself, no matter how cold, could be so… marketable?

Still, the thing that made it all worthwhile, the thing that warmed Ayano’s heart the most? 

Well, it was the fat paycheck, of course.

As Ayano folded the crisp note into her bag, she allowed herself a rare moment of satisfaction. It wasn’t much, but it was a step closer to solving some of her problems.

“Good work today, Yan-chan,” the manager called out, her tone cheerful. “I have a feeling you’re going to be very popular.” 

“Thank you.”

…For the check, that is. The cafe wasn’t her thing, and the maid costume definitely wasn’t, but the money? The money was starting to grow on her.

Maybe this job wouldn’t be so bad after all.

As long as she didn’t run into anyone from her school.

Chapter Text

"Be careful on your way home, Yan-chan!” Saku-chan called out as they parted ways. “I’ll see you tomorrow, ‘kay?"

Ayano nodded. "You too. See you tomorrow."

She exited the cafe, pulling her coat tighter around herself as she stepped into the crisp night air. The streets were eerily quiet, the occasional flicker of a streetlight breaking the monotony of her path. 

She made her way to the subway, descending into the near-empty station. It was late—too late for anyone else to bother.

As the subway car rattled along its tracks, Ayano sat silently in one of the corner seats, her reflection staring back at her from the darkened window. It was in lonely moments like this, when the world around her was quiet, that her mind began to wander. 

Overthinking, dissecting.

Her thoughts drifted back to the hairdresser earlier that day, who casually offered her ‘tips’. She’d dismissed it at the time, but now, in the emptiness of the subway, it clawed at her mind. 

One memory led to another, and soon, Ayano’s thoughts began to swirl—back to her mother. 

In truth, Ayano hadn’t always known the truth about Ryoba. For most of her childhood, she lived in ignorance. 

What she did know was that something about her family wasn’t normal.

Her earliest memories weren’t of toys or friends, but of hospitals, sterile white walls, and endless examinations. Doctors with furrowed brows. Questions she didn’t understand. 

And always, always, her father’s hopeful eyes as he watched her, waiting for something she couldn’t give.

It was that look in her father’s eyes that stayed with her—the look of someone hoping she might one day feel. 

That fragile hope shattered one quiet night when Ayano was around eight years old. She woke to the faint smell of smoke drifting through the house. 

Confused, she slipped out of bed and tiptoed silently down the hall. The source of the smell came into view when she reached the back door. Her father, sitting on the patio, a cigarette burning in his hand.

The sight struck her in a way she couldn't quite explain. She watched him lift it to his lips, inhaling deeply, and then coughing softly as the smoke escaped his lungs.

Her childlike mind made one simple connection: Smoking is bad for you.

It was something she'd heard whispered in the hospital corridors. Snippets of doctors scolding patients, warning them about the damage. She remembered the coughs, the wheezes, the heaves. The people lying in their beds, their bodies frail and weak.

But this wasn't some stranger.

This was her father. And for the first time, Ayano's quiet, detached mind stirred with something unfamiliar. A need to put on an act.

She didn't understand why he would do something so harmful to himself, but her mind settled on one simple answer.

It must have been her fault. She was the reason for those hospital visits, wasn't she? The reason for the hopeful but exhausted look in his eyes? Maybe if she were different—better—he wouldn't feel the need to hurt himself like this.

She approached her father the next morning, a smile forced across her face. And it worked. Her father’s eyes lit up with happiness, and she realised something else.

Smiling is good.

From that day forward, Ayano began to pretend she was normal. 

She laughed when her father told jokes. She hugged him when he looked sad. She grinned when he gave her gifts. It didn’t come naturally, but it made him happy. That was enough.

But that happiness was a fragile facade, and Ayano soon learned how deep the cracks in their family ran.

It was late at night, and she had woken up thirsty. She walked quietly through the house but froze when she heard her parents’ voices, tense and sharp, carrying from the living room.

“Ryoba, you can’t keep doing this,” her father’s voice was desperate, shaking. “She’s just a coworker. She wasn’t flirting with me—she was just being polite!”

“You think I don’t know the way women look at you?” Ryoba hissed, her tone cutting. “You think I don’t see the way they try to steal what’s mine?!”

“She’s not stealing anything!” Jokichi pleaded. “For God’s sake, Ryoba, you can’t just—” He cut himself off, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You can’t keep killing people.”

Ayano’s breath caught in her throat. She pressed herself against the wall, her pulse racing as her mother’s voice lowered, dangerously calm.

“You’re the one who made me promise never to speak of that again,” Ryoba said, each word dripping with warning.

“I did it to protect Ayano,” Jokichi shot back, anger breaking through his fear. “But how can I protect her when she’s growing up in a house like this? How—how can I stop her from turning out like you?”

The room fell into a heavy silence. Ayano, still hidden in the shadows, felt her heart pounding. 

Her mind raced as pieces of the puzzle fell into place: her mother’s strange demeanor, the way her father’s voice always trembled in fear when they spoke, the silent tension that filled their home.

Her mother was a killer.

It explained everything—and only then did it click. The peculiar lessons her mother taught, the cryptic way she spoke.

Ryoba had been preparing her, teaching her how to kill and get away with it, all without saying the words outright. Without breaking her promise to Jokichi.

It wasn’t just her lack of emotions that had broken her father. It was the truth of who her mother was and the constant fear that Ayano might one day follow in her footsteps.

Ayano didn’t cry. She didn’t feel anything at all, really. But as she quietly made her way back to her room, one thought settled in her mind like a stone sinking into water. 

She refused to become that way.

Even if it meant fighting every instinct within her.

“Doors now closing.”

The familiar chime of the subway pulled Ayano out of her spiraling thoughts.  

Her head snapped up, eyes darting to the darkened window, then to the screen above the door. She cursed softly under her breath, realising she’d missed her stop.

She should’ve been paying attention.  

This wasn’t the first time. She had to stop zoning out like this, she thought grimly as the subway car rattled on.

She glanced around the carriage. It was empty, the only company being the faint hum of the subway's engines and the occasional flicker of the fluorescent lights above. The shadows stretched unnaturally long across the grimy floor, and Ayano couldn’t shake the feeling that something felt off.  

When the subway finally screeched to a halt at the next station, she stood, pulling her coat tighter around herself as she stepped out onto the platform. 

The doors slid shut behind her with a hiss, and the subway rumbled away, leaving her in near silence.  

The platform was deserted. The air was heavy, the only sound the distant echo of water dripping from the ceiling. She hesitated, glancing up at the cracked station sign. This wasn’t an area she frequented, but she continued to make her way toward the stairs.  

Halfway up, she froze. It wasn’t a noise that stopped her. There was nothing but silence. It wasn’t movement either. 

But she felt it. 

A subtle shift in the air, a sensation crawling along her skin that made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.  

Her mother’s words echoed in her mind, cool and calculating. Always trust your instincts, Ayano. They’ll sense danger before your eyes do.

Someone was there. Watching her.  

Ayano didn’t turn around. She didn’t speed up, either. That would confirm she knew. Instead, she forced herself to keep walking, each step measured, her breathing steady. 

She reached into her pocket, fingers brushing against her keys. Her thumb found the edge of her keychain, pressing it firmly into her palm.  

Near the top of the stairs, she suddenly remembered another of her mother’s lessons: Predictable prey runs when cornered. But a hunter? A true hunter knows when to disappear.

Ayano approached the final step, then pretended to stumble. She let out a sharp, frustrated curse, dropping her keys with a loud clatter. 

As she crouched to pick them up, she let her peripheral vision sweep the area.  

A shadow moved at the edge of her sight. A figure lingering just out of reach at the bottom of the stairs.  

Light caught on something in their hand, a faint gleam in its shiny reflection revealing its shape.

A knife.

She didn’t hesitate. Ayano grabbed her keys, bolted upright, and pivoted sharply, darting down a side corridor she’d noticed earlier. Her mother’s advice still rang clear—always know the exits.  

The passage was narrow and dark, but Ayano didn’t falter. She reached a heavy maintenance door, slipped through, and pulled it shut behind her as silently as she could. Holding her breath, she pressed her ear against the cold metal.  

Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, coming up the stairs now.  

Ayano felt her heart pounding in her chest from adrenaline, but her mind was focused. She reached for the phone in her coat pocket, clicking it on. Not to call for help—there wasn’t time—but to light her way.  

Her mother had once shown her how to navigate unfamiliar places without being seen, and Ayano used the faint glow of her phone to scan the room. The space was filled with pipes and discarded equipment, but the faint outline of another door caught her eye. 

She moved quickly, slipping through just as she heard the footsteps reach the top of the stairs.  

This door led her to another stairwell, one that opened onto the street. As she emerged into the cold night air, Ayano didn’t stop running, blending into the sparse crowd of late-night pedestrians.  

She didn’t look back, not once.

…

Ayano’s feet pounded against the pavement as she rushed home, her breath shallow and quick. The cold air stung her lungs, but it was the knot in her chest that hurt the most.

She had escaped. She had done it. Slipped through the narrow passage, ducked into the maintenance room, and shaken the figure off. 

But now, as the adrenaline began to fade and her heartbeat slowed, Ayano couldn’t shake what had settled deep within her. The relief that should have followed the escape felt hollow, overshadowed by an overwhelming sense of discomfort. 

She had swore to herself she would never become her mother. Vowed that she would never turn out like Ryoba. And yet, in that moment, when her instincts kicked in, all those lessons, all the strategies her mother had drilled into her for years, had come rushing back without her even thinking.

Her mind replayed the way her fingers had automatically reached for the keychain, the way her body had moved, fluid and practiced, as if it had done it a thousand times before. 

She hadn’t even hesitated. 

The very thing she had spent years trying to escape from, the thing she had told herself she would never allow to consume her—had been the thing that had saved her tonight. 

A sick feeling curled in her stomach as she quickened her pace. The adrenaline had given her focus, and had allowed her to escape with precision and calm, just like Ryoba. 

Was she becoming like her mother after all?

She tried to shake the thoughts away, but they clung to her, descending with every step she took. Her body had acted without her permission, without her conscious control. Her mind screamed in protest, but the reality was, her instincts had done what they were trained to do. 

They had kept her alive, and that was the undeniable truth.

Her thoughts turned bitter. Her mind was at war with itself, unable to reconcile the two conflicting truths. She had been raised to do these things, but doing them went against everything she believed in.

But then, if not that, what else was she supposed to do? Yell for help? Run away? That’s probably what a normal person would do, but…

Ayano was anything but normal.

And the one truth she couldn’t escape was this: the world was full of dangers that most people didn’t see. Women had to be aware—always aware. Always vigilant. Always prepared. Because, as much as she hated to admit it, that was how the world worked. 

If you weren’t careful, if you weren’t sharp enough, you could become prey.

But the thing was, Ryoba hadn’t taught Ayano to protect herself from becoming prey. She had taught her to become the predator, to strike first, to dominate. Her mother’s lessons weren’t about survival—they were about power, about bending the world to your will. 

The manipulative, calculating nature of Ryoba’s training had always been to make Ayano the one who controlled the danger, not the one who was threatened by it.

Her footsteps slowed as she finally neared home, her conflicted mind still spinning. There was no simple answer, no clear resolution. But what was indisputable—what she couldn't deny, was the fact that in a world where survival was key, her mother’s lessons had worked.

And that terrified her.

The morning sun filtered through the windows of Akademi High. It was already Thursday, and Ayano arrived early this time, her mind still tangled in the events of the previous night. 

She rounded a corner toward her classroom and paused.

A boy was crouched in the middle of the hallway, hunched over something small and shiny on the floor. He was muttering to himself, completely absorbed in whatever he was doing.

“Uh…” Ayano cleared her throat softly, unsure whether to interrupt or quietly walk past. 

Well, there was still quite some time before class started anyway. She blinked, her curiosity piqued despite herself. “What are you doing?”

The boy’s head snapped up, startled. Wide, violet eyes blinked at her from behind a curtain of messy navy hair. “I—I’m, um…” His voice was barely above a whisper as he glanced down at the salt circle he was carefully sprinkling around the object. “I… I was just… spiritually cleansing the area.”

“Cleansing the area?” Ayano repeated, her tone flat.

He nodded quickly, fumbling to close the small bag of salt in his hands. “Yeah. Someone dropped a coin. It was tails-up, and, um…” He hesitated, stealing a nervous glance at her before looking away. “If someone picks it up without respect, it can carry bad energy. I didn’t want anyone to… get hurt.”

Ayano stared at him for a moment, then crouched beside him, picking up the coin without hesitation. “Like this?”

The boy gasped, his hands flying to his mouth. “You… you just touched it… Do you know what you’ve done?”

“I picked up a coin,” she replied, her voice calm. She held it out to him. “Here, I absorbed all the bad energy. Do you want it back?”

Her voice was so steady it was impossible to tell if she was making fun of him or being sincere. But when he met her gaze, he saw no mockery, no judgment—just an unsettling calm that left him speechless.

He hesitated, staring at the coin in her hand like it might explode. Then, he gingerly reached out and took it. Their fingers brushed, and he froze.

“I-I’ll cleanse it properly later,” he mumbled, clutching the coin. He avoided her gaze, but his ears were bright red.

Ayano stood, brushing off her skirt, and he scrambled to his feet too, nearly tripping over his salt circle in the process.

She noticed the spiderweb-patterned arm warmers covering his forearms and the red armband on his sleeve. A club leader—but for which club? 

Okay, who was she kidding. Occult, obviously. 

For a moment, they stood in silence. The boy fidgeted, his hands awkwardly twisting the fabric of his sleeve as he glanced at her, then quickly looked away. His lips parted as if to speak, but hesitation held him back until he finally blurted out, “You have… a really calm energy. It’s… nice.” 

He paused. “Almost like… like a serene lake,” he added, his words tumbling over themselves. “It’s soothing.”

Ayano raised an eyebrow. “A lake?”

He nodded, his face flushing pink. “I—I notice things like that,” he stammered. “I’m sorry if that’s weird. I didn’t mean to bother you or anything…”

“You’re not bothering me.”

His shoulders relaxed, just a fraction, and he murmured, “Um… thank you.”

“For what?” 

“For not… laughing at me,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. He stared at the floor as if it might swallow him whole.

She wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so she didn’t. Instead, she just nodded and turned to leave.

As she moved down the hallway, she could feel his gaze lingering on her. Just as she rounded the corner, she caught the faintest whisper behind her.

“She’s… really nice,” he murmured to himself. His voice softened, almost reverent. “A serene lake… but there’s something beneath the surface…”

…

Ayano continued to make her way to class, her footsteps quiet against the polished floor.

When she entered, a few classmates were already seated, their morning chatter filling the room. Among them were Osana and Raibaru, leaning close at their desks, whispering and giggling like always.

Ayano’s gaze drifted toward her own desk. The seat next to hers was occupied. Osano sat slumped forward, his head buried in his arms. From the rise and fall of his shoulders, it looked like he was asleep.

She walked to her desk. That was when she noticed it—an energy drink sitting neatly in the center of its surface.

Ayano paused, staring at it. Her fingers brushed the cool metal of the can as she picked it up. It wasn’t hers, that was for sure. “Who put this here?” she murmured to no one in particular.

“Osano did,” Osana called out suddenly, her voice sing-song and teasing.

Ayano glanced over to see Osana smirking, clearly enjoying herself. Raibaru hid a laugh behind her hand.

“Shut up, Osana!” Osano shot up from his seat, glaring at his sister. His face was flushed, but whether from embarrassment or annoyance, Ayano couldn’t tell.

So, he wasn’t asleep after all.

Ayano turned to him, holding up the can. “Did you?”

“No!” Osano said quickly, his tone defensive. He avoided her gaze, crossing his arms. Then, after a second, he groaned and muttered, “Okay, fine. Yeah, I did. So what?”

“Is it for me?”

Osano scoffed, his blush deepening. “Of course it’s for you, idiot.”

“But why?”

He stiffened, looking anywhere but her. “I don’t know! You’ve just… been looking tired lately, okay? Not that I care.” He ran a hand through his hair, clearly flustered. “I just… I can’t have you messing up this project.”

Ayano stared at him for a moment, the can cool against her fingers. His words were gruff, but there was something else there, something softer, hidden beneath his awkwardness.

“Thanks,” she said simply, sitting down and setting the energy drink beside her bag.

Osano grumbled something under his breath and slumped back into his seat, avoiding her gaze. Osana, meanwhile, giggled louder than ever, thoroughly enjoying her brother’s embarrassment.

As if she wasn’t the exact same when it came to Taro.

Ayano ignored them all, her fingers idly tracing the ridges of the can. It wasn’t much, but… she was grateful.

“Ayano Aishi.”

The sudden, low voice cut through her haze, just as she was about to make her way out of the classroom for lunch.

Ayano paused mid-step, glancing over her shoulder. 

Mido-sensei stood a few feet behind her, his gaze pinning her in place. “You haven’t forgotten already, have you?”

Right. She’d skipped the last lesson, and now it was time for the inevitable talk. Her actions had caught up to her.

Without much thought, Ayano started toward the classroom, preparing herself for a reprimand. But before she could take more than a step, someone suddenly grabbed her wrist, speaking up.

“Ayano, what are you doing?” 

She blinked. Osano stood beside her, his grip firm. His expression was uneasy, like he was barely holding back from saying something rash.

“Osano?” she asked, her voice flat.

Osano didn’t like this one bit. His chest tightened as his eyes flickered to Mido-sensei, who was watching them with an unreadable expression. 

Osano wasn’t usually the type to notice things like this—he wasn’t particularly intuitive, and he’d never cared about what Ayano did before—at least, that was what he told himself. But since Mido came, there was something about him that rubbed him the wrong way. 

Maybe it was how he always seemed to hover around certain students a little too much. Or how his casual demeanor didn’t quite match the look in his eyes.

And then there was the way he was looking at Ayano now.

Osano had just been shuffling along with the crowd as they filed out of the classroom, his thoughts drifting aimlessly. The bell’s sharp chime still echoed faintly in the air, blending with Mido-sensei’s voice, which barely registered as background noise. 

Just another teacher calling out to a student. Nothing unusual. Nothing worth his attention. Until he heard her voice.

Ayano’s voice.

That had stopped him in his tracks. 

Osano’s grip on her wrist tightened slightly. He didn’t have a clear plan—he just knew he didn’t like the situation. “Weren’t we going to… work on our project in the library? Yeah, remember?” he blurted, his voice rising slightly. The words felt clumsy, but it was the best excuse he could come up with on the spot.

“We were?” Ayano asked flatly. 

Damn it, Ayano, he thought, exasperated. She wasn’t making this easy.

“I need her for a moment. You don’t mind, do you?” Mido-sensei’s tone was polite, but there was an underlying authority that made it clear Osano didn’t have much of a choice.

Osano’s jaw tightened as he looked at Ayano, his thoughts racing. What was he even doing? He was acting on impulse again. 

He let out a breath, his frustration with himself growing. But the unease in his gut wouldn’t go away.

“Fine,” he muttered, releasing her wrist. His hand fell to his side. Without another word, he turned and walked away, each step feeling heavier than the last.

He hated this—this sense of helplessness. It wasn’t like him to care about stuff like this, but something about that teacher made his skin crawl.

Ayano blinked, still trying to make sense of what had just happened, as Mido-sensei motioned for her to follow him into the classroom.

Inside, he moved to his desk, rifling through a stack of papers. Ayano stood awkwardly by the door, waiting for the scolding she was sure was coming. 

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” He straightened, strolling toward her with an exaggerated sigh. “You’re breaking my heart here, Aishi. Do you know how much effort I put into my lessons? The least you could do is show up to admire my hard work—or, better yet, learn something.”

Hm, so he really was worried about her learning. Maybe he was just a normal teacher after all. Osano was worried about nothing.

Without wasting any time, Ayano bowed deeply. “I apologise, teacher,” she spoke, the words measured and spoken with just enough dejection. “I had something to take care of.” 

“Something to take care of?” Mido-sensei repeated, raising an eyebrow. His voice dropped a little lower, his smirk lingering as he took a slow step toward her. There was a deliberate slowness to his movements, a subtle challenge in his gaze that made the air feel heavier.

“What are you, a secret agent? A vigilante? Or are you just sneaking off to nap somewhere? Because the latter is unacceptable unless you invite me to join.” His gaze locked onto hers, as if waiting—searching, for a reaction.

Ayano’s eyes flickered to his briefly, her expression still unreadable. Though the way he spoke made her wonder if he was simply joking or if he was probing for something more. 

Mido sighed when all he was met with was a completely blank expression. “Look, I don’t really care what your excuse is, just don’t make a habit of it. You’re smart, Aishi. Don’t waste that by skipping class, okay?”

Ayano nodded once, her face betraying no emotion.

“Good.” His tone shifted, taking on a smooth, almost velvety quality that contrasted with the sternness of his earlier words. 

He leaned in slightly, just enough to invade her personal space without crossing a line, his red eyes studying her face with an intensity that was hard to place. 

“But don’t think you’re off the hook just because you apologised,” he added, his voice dropping lower, his words purposefully slow, drawing out the tension. 

Her silence prompted him to continue, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. 

“You’ll have to use your body.”

The statement hung in the air, the deliberate phrasing provocative. His lips curved into a full smirk, watching her closely, as if expecting some acknowledgment this time. When none came, his expression faltered—just for a second.

It didn't rattle her at all.

“...You’ll use your body,” he repeated, stepping back slightly. “To help me rearrange the desks. Don’t look so scandalised, Aishi.” 

His voice had shifted again, lighter now, teasing, as if the moment of tension had been nothing more than a game to him. 

He waved a hand dismissively, already moving toward the first desk. “Come on, chop-chop. If you’re going to skip my class, you’re going to pay me back with some free labour. Fair deal, right?”

Ayano blinked once, then moved to follow his lead, wordlessly picking up a chair. 

...

The door clicked shut behind Ayano as she stepped out of the classroom, and she glanced at the clock hanging on the wall at the end of the hallway. 

She still had a few minutes of lunch left—not enough time to enjoy her meal, but perhaps just enough to find somewhere quiet.  

Her hand brushed against her bag, a reminder of the bento box she’d carefully packed that morning. For once, she’d remembered. The rice was perfectly cooked, the side dishes arranged neatly, she’d even included a few strawberries for dessert.  

But now, she wouldn’t even have the time to eat it. Her steps were brisk as she headed toward a secluded spot outside. Maybe she could at least take a bite or two before the bell rang.  

As she walked, Ayano’s thoughts drifted, but a subtle sensation pulled her back into focus. That feeling again.  

Someone was watching her.  

But this wasn’t the same as before. She didn’t get the suffocating, gut-wrenching feeling of being hunted. This was… harmless. There was no malice, no threat, just a quiet presence trailing her at a cautious distance.  

She waited until she turned a corner, stepping just far enough out of sight. Then, she stopped abruptly and spun on her heel, catching the person in the act.  

There he was.

The same boy from this morning.  

He froze mid-step, his wide purple eyes blinking at her like a deer caught in headlights. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence stretching out uncomfortably.  

“Why are you following me?” Ayano asked, her voice calm but firm, her gaze steady as she studied his reaction.  

The boy fidgeted, his hands clenching the hem of his shirt. “I—I wasn’t following you,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I mean, not in a weird way. I just… noticed you were leaving, and…”  

He trailed off, his face flushing a deep shade of pink.  

Ayano’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Noticed me leaving and decided to follow me?”  

He winced at her bluntness, but strangely enough, there was no hostility in her tone. “I… I just thought you seemed… interesting,” he admitted, his voice so quiet she almost didn’t catch it. “Like there’s… more to you than what you show.”  

…Interesting?

The word echoed in her mind, foreign and out of place. She’d always thought of herself as ordinary, invisible even—someone who blended seamlessly into the background. That was how she’d trained herself to be.

She’d spent years perfecting the art of being unremarkable. She wore her mask well: polite, composed, and utterly forgettable. It was safer that way, wasn’t it? If no one noticed her, they couldn’t dig deeper. They couldn’t find what lay beneath.

That was her shield. If no one looked too closely, no one would see the cracks beneath.

“I’m sorry,” he said, bowing his head quickly. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I’ll—I’ll leave you alone now.”  

He turned as if to retreat, but something about the sincerity in his tone made her pause.  

“Wait,” she said, her voice stopping him in his tracks.  

He froze and turned back to face her.  

“You say I seem interesting,” Ayano said slowly. “How?”  

The boy hesitated, his gaze darting to the ground. “It’s… hard to explain,” he mumbled. “But there’s something about you… like you’re calm on the surface, but there’s something deeper underneath. Like…”  

“A lake,” she finished for him, recalling his earlier words.  

He nodded, his cheeks burning. “Yeah… exactly.”  

For a moment, he just stared at her, flustered but strangely pleased. “Oko Ruto,” he blurted out. “That’s my name.”

Even his name practically screamed occult.

“Ayano Aishi,” she replied simply. “Oko... Are you the leader of the occult club?”

She couldn’t help but notice how his shyness seemed to melt away the instant the topic of the occult came up. It was as if a switch had been flipped, and the quiet, uncertain boy she’d encountered earlier was replaced by someone completely different. Someone passionate, as if the very mention of it gave him a sense of purpose.

”Yes, I am,” he said eagerly. “I really believe that ghosts, demons, and black magic are real.”

He was so open about what he believed, so unapologetic about it. It was almost enviable.

Oko was someone who didn’t shy away from the shadows but actively sought them out, chasing after mysteries most people would dismiss or laugh at. 

He was willing to face the unknown head-on, no matter how absurd or impossible it seemed. Meanwhile, Ayano spent every day running from her own darkness, hiding it behind a carefully constructed mask of normalcy.

She couldn’t imagine what it felt like to have that kind of freedom—to embrace something so openly, without fear of what others might think. To chase a passion without the constant need to conceal, to deflect, to disappear.

Ayano didn’t believe in the occult, but in that moment, she almost wished she could. It would’ve been easier to put a name to the shadows in her life, to call them demons or curses and exorcise them with rituals. 

But the things haunting her couldn’t be banished that way. They were rooted too deeply in who she was.

“I want to dedicate my life to proving their existence,” he continued.

As Ayano listened to Oko, her mind drifted back to last night. She had used Ryoba’s lessons to save herself, only to feel sick for relying on that darkness.

But now, standing before Oko, there was something different about the way he spoke. His enthusiasm, his belief in the occult, in the things that most people would dismiss as mere superstition.

Maybe, just maybe, that darkness wasn’t the enemy. Maybe it wasn’t something she had to constantly run from, bury deep inside her, or despise. Perhaps it was something she could face, something that could be a part of her in a way that didn’t make her sick, but instead, allowed her to truly understand herself.

For the first time, Ayano wondered if embracing the shadows could be the key to finding her true self—not as a weakness, but as a strength. For the good.

“By any chance, do you believe in the occult too?” he asked curiously.

“No, I don’t,” Ayano replied bluntly.

The excitement drained from his face, his shoulders slumping as if her words had physically deflated him.

“But,” she added, her tone still indifferent, “you can believe whatever you want.”

He paused. To anyone else, her words might have sounded dismissive—cold, even, as though she didn’t care about the subject at all. Her tone was flat, devoid of any enthusiasm or encouragement, and her expression betrayed nothing. 

It was the kind of response that could have easily shut down a conversation, leaving the other person feeling insignificant.  

But to Oko, they meant the world.  

Her indifference wasn’t rejection; it was acknowledgement. She didn’t ridicule him, dismiss his passion as childish, or roll her eyes like so many others did.

Instead, she gave him space to believe.

In his eyes, her simple, matter-of-fact statement carried a quiet acceptance, a rare kindness he wasn’t used to receiving.  

Oko had always been the odd one out—the boy with strange ideas and an obsession with the unseen. Most people treated his fascination with the occult as a joke, a phase, or a reason to avoid him entirely. 

But Ayano… she didn’t laugh, she didn’t try to change his mind or tell him he was wrong.  

In that brief moment, Oko felt a spark of connection. It wasn’t approval, but it wasn’t mockery either. To someone like him, who lived in the shadows of ridicule, that neutral acceptance was a rare and precious gift.

His gaze softened, a small, almost shy smile forming on his lips.

Ayano regarded him for a moment, her expression unreadable. “I’ll be going now,” she said flatly, giving a brief nod before turning away. 

Oko watched her go, standing frozen in place until she disappeared from sight.

For a moment, the silence pressed around him. He hadn’t expected her words to linger, but they did, echoing faintly in his chest. Someone had finally heard him, even without agreeing.

The realisation bloomed slowly, warm and dizzying.

His heart stuttered once, then began to race, an erratic rhythm that made his breath catch. He clutched his shirt, startled by the rush of it and his thoughts that spiralled in a way he couldn’t control, and he had no idea why.

“She… must be a siren…”

Chapter Text

Ayano slipped out the back door of the school and made her way to a bench behind the building. 

Sitting down, she opened her bento box, revealing the carefully arranged meal she’d packed that morning. The rice was shaped perfectly, the side dishes aligned neatly, and the strawberries she’d included still looked fresh.  

It was just a shame she wouldn’t have the chance to fully enjoy it this time.

She’d wasted more than half of her lunchtime helping Mido-sensei rearrange the desks, and then there was the whole thing with Oko, too.

As she picked up her chopsticks, a familiar presence approached.  

Osoro strolled over, hands stuffed into his pockets, his shoes scuffing the pavement with every step. He didn’t say anything, just tilted his head slightly in greeting before sitting down beside her on the bench.  

Ayano gave him a small nod, and he responded with a faint hum of acknowledgement.

“...What’s up?” she asked, her tone neutral but curious.

Osoro shrugged, leaning back and stretching his arms along the back of the bench. “Didn’t feel like hanging with the guys,” he said casually, his gaze fixed somewhere in the distance. “Too much noise, not enough peace.”

Ayano accepted his answer without prying further. She understood the need for quiet better than most.

They didn’t talk much after that—never had to. Their silences were comfortable, the kind where neither felt the need to fill the air with pointless chatter. 

Her eyes lowered to her bento again, and she resumed picking at her meal. They sat together in the peaceful quiet, the air filled with the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of birds. 

As she took a few more bites from her lunch, she caught him side-eyeing it once or twice when he thought she wasn’t looking. She didn’t mention it, though, keeping her focus on the food in front of her. He didn’t say anything either, but the way his eyes lingered on the bento every now and then was hard to miss.

When the bell rang, Ayano snapped the lid of her bento shut, her chopsticks clicking into place.  

“I have to go to class,” she said, standing and brushing off her skirt.  

Osoro raised an eyebrow. “Class, huh. So you’re not skipping this time?”  

“No,” Ayano replied simply, adjusting her bag.  

“Guess you’re a good student after all.”

She was about to turn away when a low, unmistakable sound broke the moment: his stomach growling. Osoro froze, his confidence faltering for just a second as he sat up straighter, a faint blush creeping up his neck. 

“Hungry?” she asked, her voice neutral, though there was a trace of something lighter in her tone.  

“Tch. I’m not—” Osoro began, but his stomach betrayed him again with another growl, louder this time.  

Ayano glanced down at her bento box, still half full, then held it out to him. “Here. I didn’t have time to finish it anyway.”  

Osoro stared at her, his eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to figure out if there was a catch. When he saw there wasn’t, he took the box, muttering something under his breath that might have been a thank you.  

As Ayano walked away, she glanced back briefly. Osoro was sitting there, chopsticks in hand, poking at the rice with a mix of curiosity and skepticism before taking a bite.  

For someone so feared, he looked almost… harmless.  

…

Ayano walked into her classroom, surprised to find it nearly empty. 

The only other person there was Midori Gurin, standing by her desk with her phone in hand, utterly absorbed.

“Oh, hey, Yan-chan!” Midori beamed, glancing up from her screen. “Guess you forgot too, huh?”

“Forgot what?” Ayano asked, tilting her head to the side.

“PE, duh!” Midori gestured dramatically at the empty classroom. “It’s right now! Can you believe it? I came all the way here just to realise there’s no actual class! But hey, you did too, so we’re like… twinsies!”

“Right,” Ayano replied.

Midori hopped up, grinning. “Guess we’d better head to the gym, huh?” 

As they walked together, Midori’s chatter filled the silence.

“You know,” Midori began, her tone conspiratorial, “I’ve been thinking. What if we’re all just characters in a video game? Or… in a fanfiction? Like, someone’s out there controlling everything we do! Crazy, right? I mean, it’d explain why Mido-sensei’s so strange. Maybe the devs just coded him that way. What do you think?”

Ayano gave a noncommittal hum, letting Midori ramble on.

“Oh, come on, don’t leave me hanging!” Midori said, leaning closer. “You totally believe me, don’t you? Like, I tried telling Osano about it once, but he just called me weird. Rude, right?!”

By the time they changed out of their uniform and reached the gymnasium, Midori had cycled through at least five different tangents. Ayano, used to tuning out unnecessary noise, barely registered most of it. Most of it went into one ear and out the other.

The gym was bustling with activity. Their class had merged with 2-2 for Physical Education, which meant a mix of familiar and unfamiliar faces. 

Ayano stepped inside and navigated through the crowd. She positioned herself right in the middle, a spot where she could blend in effortlessly—neither too conspicuous nor too hidden, right?

Wrong.

The first to approach Ayano was Amao, his warm, ever-cheerful smile lighting up his face as he waved enthusiastically.

“Hi, Ayano!” he greeted, his voice bright and welcoming. “Isn’t this great? Our classes are together this time.” His tone was light and genuine, his excitement almost contagious as he clasped his hands together.

Before Ayano could respond, another presence smoothly inserted itself into the conversation. 

Kizano arrived at her side, moving with the confident air of someone accustomed to being the center of attention. His polished demeanor radiated flair as he effortlessly cut off Amao mid-sentence.

“Ah, my Juliet,” Kizano began, his voice smooth and honeyed. With practiced elegance, he took Ayano’s hand in his, tilting his head slightly as his gaze locked onto hers. “Long time no see. The stars must have aligned for us to meet again.”

Before Ayano could react, Kizano lifted her hand and pressed a kiss onto it, his every movement oozing charm.

Ayano blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Her thoughts scrambled as she tried to make sense of the situation. Juliet? What was he talking about? 

They’d only met once before, and even then it was just that brief rehearsal she’d prefer not to think about. And yet, here he was, acting as though they shared some grand romantic history.

Amao’s cheerful expression faltered for just a moment, his eyes darting from Kizano to Ayano before he quickly stepped forward to reclaim her attention. Clearing his throat, he smiled again, though it lacked his earlier warmth. 

“Kizano,” Amao began, his tone still polite but slightly more strained. “I’m not sure if you noticed, but this is PE class, not drama.”

Kizano barely spared him a glance, still holding Ayano’s hand as though the world revolved around their exchange. “Ah, Amao,” he said smoothly, “Physical education is important, yes, but so is seizing the moment. And this moment? Divine.”

The air between the two boys seemed to crackle with unspoken tension. Amao crossed his arms, visibly trying to maintain his composure.

Ayano, meanwhile, remained still, her expression blank as she processed the absurdity unfolding before her. She glanced between them, her internal sigh almost audible. 

What exactly was going on here?

“I knew it…” a boy whispered to himself from across the room. “A siren. She must be one.”

Ayano felt the weight of a gaze on her. Turning her head, she locked eyes with Oko. She hadn’t even noticed he was in class 2-2 as well. The moment their eyes met, he quickly averted his gaze, his face flushing pink as he realised he’d been caught. Again.

“Alright, everyone, listen up!” Tachikawa-sensei’s booming voice cut through the chatter. The PE teacher stood at the front of the gym, her whistle dangling from her neck. “We’ve got the sports festival coming up next Monday, so today, I expect you all to give it your all! No slacking!”

The class groaned collectively, a chorus of discontent echoing through the gymnasium. Kyoshi Tachikawa clapped her hands sharply, cutting through the complaints with an authoritative smile.

“I mean it! Let’s get started with dodgeball. Teams will be split evenly—no whining about it!” she declared.

“But we’re in high school,” someone muttered from the back. “Can’t we do something else?”

“No complaining!” Kyoshi shot back, her tone firm.

Then suddenly, a bright voice broke through the grumbling. “Come on, everyone! Let’s give it our all! It’ll be fun, right?” His wide grin and enthusiastic energy seemed to lighten the mood instantly.

The class exchanged reluctant glances, and one person finally sighed. “Well, if Aso says so… I guess we should give it a shot.”

Ayano glanced at him, her expression neutral but her curiosity piqued. 

Blond hair, sky blue eyes, tanned skin.

It was that boy from before, she realised, remembering their brief encounter when she bumped into him. His energy was almost infectious, and judging by the class’s response, it was clear he was popular. 

He was… really enthusiastic. 

…

When the teams were announced, Ayano found herself grouped with Aso and Osano, while Kizano and Amao ended up on the opposing side. As they lined up on the court, Aso’s grin grew even wider, his competitive spirit practically radiating off him.

“This is gonna be great,” Aso said, giving Ayano and Osano a thumbs-up. “We’ve got this!”

Osano groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, sure. Let’s just get this over with.”

Well, it could be worse, Ayano thought. The whistle blew, and the game began.

Ayano stood, her eyes briefly scanning the opposing team. Amao waved politely to her from across the court.

Aso managed to knock out one of the opposing players, and the court erupted in cheers. A group rushed to high-five him, their enthusiasm spilling over.

Meanwhile, Ayano stood still, her expression impassive. The game just started. Why were they so energetic?

Her lack of movement must have made her look like an easy target because someone on the other team pointed at her and yelled, “Okay, that girl over there. She’s the first victim!”

Ayano deadpanned, muttering under her breath, “Why am I the first target?”

The boy with the ball grinned and hurled it straight at her face. She didn’t flinch, deciding she’d just take the hit. It wasn’t worth the effort to dodge.

The ball smacked her square on the forehead.

“Whoa—are you okay?” Osano whispered, clearly startled.

“Looks like I’m out,” Ayano said blankly, brushing her bangs back into place. Too bad.

“Hold on!” Aso suddenly shouted, stepping forward like a self-appointed referee. “Were you even trying?”

Maybe that was too obvious. She gave him a nod anyway.

“Oh... really?” Aso tilted his head, unconvinced. “Well, it doesn’t matter. Where are you going? You’re not out. Hits to the face don’t count!”

Ayano blinked. Since when was that a rule?

Reluctantly, Ayano stayed on the court as the dodgeball game continued to unfold around her. Balls flew back and forth with increasing intensity, players diving and dodging with varying degrees of skill. 

One by one, her teammates were knocked out, their grumbles of frustration echoing through the gym as they shuffled to the sidelines.  

Before she could even process what had happened, Ayano found herself standing on her team’s side of the court. 

…Alone.

Somehow, she was the last one left on her team, all eyes now subtly shifting toward her. 

Across from her, four players still stood, some of them grinning like wolves circling prey.

This was far from ideal. All eyes were on her now. She held the ball, her turn to throw.

Ayano sighed inwardly, shifting her weight slightly as she prepared to move. She hadn't planned to stand out, but fate seemed to have other ideas.

The thing was, Ayano could win this if she wanted to. It wouldn’t be that difficult. But if she completely crushed the other team, it would draw attention—exactly what she didn’t want. 

On the other hand, if she deliberately sold the game, she’d lose face with her classmates, and that would bring a different kind of trouble.

She weighed her options. Then… the best course of action? Aim for the middle ground. Take out one person, just enough to seem competent, and then bow out gracefully.

Her eyes scanned the players. Kizano was smirking confidently, standing in an overly dramatic pose like he was on stage. 

He’d do.

Ayano threw the ball, putting a calculated amount of spin on it. Outwardly, it looked like a weak throw, slow and unthreatening.

“Going easy on me, Ayano?” Kizano taunted, stepping forward to catch it with ease.

…But the spinning ball bounced off the palm of his hands, slipped through his fingers, and fell to the ground.

“How did you manage to drop that?” Amao said, looking at him in disbelief.

Kizano cleared his throat, recovering quickly, though he was out of the game now. “It was… more difficult to catch than it looked. Clearly a deceptive strategy.”

“Sure,” Amao replied, unconvinced.

Ayano relaxed slightly. Mission accomplished. Now, she could just let the next ball hit her and be done with it.

At least, that was the plan. But then she noticed who had the ball.

Amao.

He stood there, gripping it awkwardly, his expression wavering reluctantly. His gaze met hers, soft and unthreatening.

“Come on, Amao!” someone from his team called out. “Just throw it already!”

Amao glanced at the teammate, then back at Ayano. His fingers tightened around the ball, but his hesitation was obvious.

She shifted her weight slightly, giving him a neutral but expectant look, as if to tell him to just get it over with.

But Amao’s resolve wavered further, and Ayano could almost see the internal battle playing out on his face. Finally, he exhaled sharply and lobbed the ball toward her, the throw soft and apologetic.

He couldn’t even aim properly.

Ayano caught it effortlessly. It wouldn’t be a good look to go out from a throw like that, either.

“Really, Amao?” someone whined.

With Kizano and Amao now out, only two random students remained on the opposing team.

Ayano tilted her head slightly, the ball resting in her hands as she examined it. 

“Over here!” a voice called out, breaking her train of thought.

It was Aso, standing at the back of the court. He waved at her, his expression eager but focused.

…There was one more option, Ayano realised. If she passed the ball to Aso and he caught it, he’d be back in the game. That would ease some of the pressure off her.

He was far, though—too far for a casual throw. She’d need to put just the right amount of force behind it to reach him without overshooting. No margin for error. Calculating her angle, she took a breath and steadied her grip.

Okay. Just do it.

Ayano hurled the ball, aiming for precision. 

But instead of flying directly to Aso, one of the opposing players moved to intercept. 

Having severely underestimated the amount of power she put into the throw, the ball slammed square into his chest with a loud thud.

It then ricocheted off him, and hit the second player—his own teammate—in the leg.

…The court fell silent.

Everyone froze, staring at the aftermath.

Then, the whistle blew.

“Game over!” the teacher announced. “This team wins!”

Ayano blinked, her neutral expression unchanged as the realisation sank in. That… wasn’t the plan.

Aso let out a loud laugh from the back, clapping his hands. “Nice one! Two birds, one stone!”

The rest of her team erupted into cheers, rushing toward her, while the opposing side grumbled in defeat.

Ayano stood there, caught in the middle of the chaos. She didn’t celebrate, didn’t smile. Great. Now they’d think she was some kind of dodgeball prodigy.

Aso jogged over, a wide grin lighting up his face. “You’ve got some serious skills! Full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“Not really,” Ayano replied flatly.

Aso tilted his head, studying her for a moment before snapping his fingers. “Wait a second—aren’t you the girl I bumped into the other day? I never got your name.”

“Ayano,” she said simply, holding out the ball to him.

“Cool! My name is—”

“...Aso,” she finished for him, her tone steady.

Aso blinked in surprise before breaking into a laugh. “Oh, so you do remember me! Guess I must’ve left a good impression.”

“Something like that,” Ayano replied.

As the commotion carried on behind her, Ayano couldn’t help but sigh internally. So much for staying under the radar.

Ayano left the gym with Midori joining her at her side, the green-haired girl chattering about the ‘hidden stats’ and ‘plot-armour’ she was sure Ayano must have had to play so well.

…

By the time Ayano finished changing back into her school uniform, the hallways were quieter, and cleaning time had already begun. 

But Ayano couldn’t really be bothered with the routine. She walked out of the girls' locker room and headed toward the back of the school, the usual hum of activity fading behind her. 

She found a bench, sitting down in silence, letting the stillness settle around her. 

Deep down, she was waiting for a certain delinquent—his presence had a way of filling the silence, even if he wasn’t the easiest person to figure out.

And of course, she still needed her bento box back.

But as the minutes passed, there was no sign of him. He was probably with his gang, or maybe not even at school anymore. She exhaled, leaning back slightly and letting her gaze wander.

That was when she noticed someone approaching. A student council member.

The girl had shoulder-length dark blue hair, with one eye visible and the other concealed beneath a black eyepatch. Her expression was set in a permanent scowl, but Ayano still felt the weight of her authority as she walked past, the soft scrape of her shoes against the pavement echoing in the quiet.

Ayano shifted slightly on the bench, the quiet rustling of her movement catching the girl’s attention.

The student council member turned around and narrowed her one visible eye, studying Ayano with a sharp, calculating look. “Hm,” she hummed, as though contemplating something. “Do you know it’s cleaning time?”

Ayano stared back blankly, confused and mildly irritated. Cleaning time. Seriously? Of all the people to pick on, she was the one being singled out? The delinquents were probably just a few meters away, loitering around the incinerator, and the popular girls were likely in the bathrooms gossiping.

Yet here this girl was, focusing on her.

Ayano’s brow furrowed. She didn’t know much about Megamo, the student council president—just that he wasn’t attending school for some unknown reason—but the rest of the council seemed to always be watching her. It was like they were waiting for her to slip up, and she had no idea why.

She couldn’t understand it, but it was a feeling she’d gotten more than once, ever since she’d started at this school. 

Every time she walked past a student council member, there was a noticeable shift in their posture, an almost imperceptible tension in the air. It was like they were always on edge around her, as if she were a threat to something they were guarding.

She didn’t reply, instead giving the girl a slow, almost bored look.

The silence between them stretched, but Ayano wasn’t about to speak first. She wasn’t in the mood to entertain whatever this was. She had no interest in whatever game the student council thought they were playing, nor did she particularly care about their mysterious agenda.

The council’s suspicious behavior was starting to feel almost predictable, and she wasn’t about to waste her time trying to figure out why they seemed so intent on watching her.

Finally, the girl seemed to give up, her stance softening just slightly. She gave a single nod, almost like a concession, and without another word, turned and walked away, her footsteps fading as she moved further down the path.

Ayano reached into her pocket, fingers brushing against her phone. Pulling it out, she checked the time. Cleaning time was over.

She should head to work now.

The occasional clinking of dishes filled the air at the bustling maid cafe. 

Ayano, dressed in the frilly uniform she’d now grown indifferent to, moved through the tables with practiced ease. Her expression was calm, her demeanor aloof but poised.

Since her first shift, word had spread, and now the cafe was noticeably more crowded. Ayano paid little mind to the increased attention. Customers stared a bit too long, whispered a bit too loudly, but she simply focused on her tasks, unaffected.

At a nearby table, two male customers chatted animatedly. One of them reached for his drink, but his hand bumped the glass, sending it tumbling to the floor. It shattered on impact, the sound cutting through the lively atmosphere.

Ayano approached immediately, kneeling by the table. She began picking up the larger shards, her movements careful and deliberate.

“I’ll help,” one of the men offered, leaning forward with a concerned look.

Ayano glanced up briefly, her calm gaze meeting his. “It’s dangerous,” she said, her voice steady. “Leave this to me.”

The man froze, his cheeks turning pink under her composed attention. He nodded awkwardly and sat back down, his friend snickering quietly at his reaction.

As Ayano continued cleaning, she just barely caught their hushed voices.

“As I thought,” the first whispered, trying to keep his excitement in check. “Yan-chan is quite the ideal maid.”

“Right?” the other agreed reverently, leaning closer. “I can’t hold back anymore.”

Ayano didn’t react outwardly, though she noted their words. The fragments of glass clinked softly as she deposited them into a small tray.

Standing, she gave the pair a polite nod. “Please be more careful,” she said, her tone even but with a subtle edge that left them both fidgeting in their seats.

She turned and walked away, heading toward the counter to dispose of the shards. Behind her, the two men exchanged nervous glances.

Ayano didn’t spare them another thought. Her mind was elsewhere, focused on finishing her shift and leaving behind the fluttering gazes of her admirers.

…

The cafe was silent now, the bustle of conversation and clinking plates long gone. 

Ayano moved methodically through her closing tasks, wiping down tables and stacking chairs. The only sound was the faint rustle of her apron and the occasional creak of the wooden floorboards.

She paused by the register, her pay check resting neatly on the counter. Her manager’s voice a few hours earlier still rang in her ears:

“There’s a shop owner union meeting tonight!” the manager had exclaimed, looking frazzled. “And I still have to do the accounts. Really, it’s a bother. But please, would you close up the place while I’m gone? I’ll be back before you can even say omelette, I promise!”

Ayano had barely glanced up from her paycheck, her tone steady as ever. “It’s okay,” she had said. Overtime didn’t bother her. Money talked, and right now, she needed it.

Now, as she turned the key in the front door’s lock, she heard a faint sound from the back of the shop—a metallic jingle. Her hand stilled, and she frowned slightly.

“Manager?” she called, her voice low but clear. She stepped toward the back, her shoes clicking softly against the tiled floor. 

The jingle came again, unmistakable now. Keys.

Before she could reach the door, the lights flickered and went out, plunging the cafe into darkness. Ayano froze, her senses sharpening as the sound of footsteps filled the silence.

From the shadows, two figures emerged. Her eyes adjusted quickly, and recognition settled in.

It was the two customers from earlier, their faces partially obscured in the dim light.

Damn it. Maybe she should’ve taken their earlier whispers more seriously.

“Yan-chan,” one of them said, his voice unnervingly calm. “Don’t move.”

Her gaze dropped to his hand, where a taser gleamed faintly in the darkness. The other man approached her swiftly, his movements less hesitant than his earlier demeanor.

They worked quickly, tying her wrists to a chair and taping her mouth shut. Their hands were clumsy but firm, and for now, Ayano allowed it, her body slack and unresisting.

She’d let them relish in the delusion, just for a little bit.

Because fear? No, there was none of that. Her heart remained steady, her breathing even. If they had truly intended to harm her, she would have known. Ayano’s instincts were honed to detect real danger, and these two didn’t register.

Her mind flickered back to the time she’d felt true danger—the darkened subway station, the sensation of being watched, a shadow that followed her too closely. That had been different. That had been real, raw killing intent.

These men, though? They were amateurs, driven by impulse and emboldened by the anonymity of the night.

One of them leaned in closer, his breath uneven as he muttered, “You don’t need to be scared, Yan-chan. We’re not going to hurt you. We just... we couldn’t help ourselves.”

Ayano’s eyes remained blank, her body unmoving as she assessed them silently. Her mind began to tick through the possibilities, calculating the quickest way to turn the situation in her favour.

They didn’t know who they were dealing with.

And by the time the night was over, they’d regret ever thinking she was an easy target.

…

The street outside the cafe was quiet, the usual buzz of the city dulled by the lateness of the hour. 

A boy stood in the shadows, partially hidden by the overhang of a nearby shop. His grip tightened around the handle of a knife, the blade catching the faint glow of a distant streetlight.

His expression was unreadable, save for the tension in his jaw. His red eyes, thin and calculating, remained fixed on the cafe’s back door. 

Everything was supposed to go smoothly. He had watched, waited, calculated, ever since that time at the subway station. She was supposed to be alone.

Back then, he’d been careless. He had no idea she’d be so slippery. But this time would be different.

But then the muffled sound of voices reached his ears, breaking the stillness. His head snapped toward the source, his body going rigid. His breath hitched slightly, his gaze hardening as he processed the situation.

Two voices. Male.

This… was an unaccounted-for development.

He leapt to the balcony like a shadow, landing soundlessly. His movements were cautious, each step as quiet as a breath, the knife in his hand a cold weight against his palm. 

From his vantage point, he leaned just enough to peer through the faintly illuminated glass door, his gaze narrowing as the scene inside unfolded.

There she was—his target, tied to a chair, her expression unsettlingly calm despite her predicament. The two men hovered around her, their movements clumsy and agitated, like vultures circling prey. Whatever they were planning, their intent was written all over their nervous fidgeting.

His grip on the knife tightened, the fabric of his gloves wrinkling under the strain. A strange, seething irritation bubbled up inside him, irrational and uncontrollable. 

Idiots.

They had no right to touch her, to even look at her. If anyone was going to lay a hand on her, it was going to be him.

But his eyes flicked to Ayano. She wasn’t struggling. She wasn’t even afraid. 

It was as if she was waiting, calculating something of her own.

The two males’ voices faltered, the words they’d rehearsed sounding weak as they started their spiel. “You are our definition of the perfect maid. We’ve been watching you.”

Ayano had heard enough.

With a flick of her wrist, she tore the ropes binding her apart with ease, the sound of fabric snapping in the air. Both men froze, their eyes wide with shock.

Outside, the mysterious figure in the shadows paused in his tracks, just as he was about to break in. He blinked, confusion flickering in his gaze. “…Huh?”

“Is—is that even physically possible?!” one of the men stammered, taking a step back.

Ayano ripped the tape off her mouth, her deadpan expression not changing. “You guys don’t really know the real me. What utter bullshit. What do you even know about me?” Her tone was sharp, laced with annoyance, though her face was cold and blank as ever.

She observed their movements with a critical eye, noting the slight wobble in the grip of one of the men’s taser. 

Pathetic.

She had spent so long resisting becoming like her mother, rejecting the idea that violence was a way to get ahead. Yet, as she stood here now, facing these men who had underestimated her, she couldn’t help but wonder: If it was for a good reason… like knocking some sense into these fools… it was morally okay, right?

She hesitated for only a moment before her mind made up. The logic was simple.

The moment one lunged, Ayano effortlessly sidestepped, grabbing his wrist and twisting his arm until the taser slipped from his hand with a dull thud on the floor. She kicked the taser away with practiced ease, then, in a calculated instant, she drove her fist upward into his chin.

The force sent his head snapping back, and he staggered onto the floor.

She turned to deal with the other, but he tumbled backward, his face contorted with fear.

The second man’s thoughts raced as he scrambled to regain his footing, his breath quickening in panic. What the hell just happened? She wasn’t supposed to be able to do that. She was just a maid!

Meanwhile, Ayano couldn’t help but think bitterly about how proud her mother might be if she saw this, her mind flashing back to one of her lessons on fighting. Ryoba had framed it to Jokichi as essential self-defense education, a way to survive in a twisted world.

Of course Ayano knew otherwise.

“What—what the hell are you?” he gasped, his voice cracking.

She drew back her fist. “I’m simply… one hell of a maid.”

But before Ayano could beat this other guy to a pulp, a shadow suddenly flickered from the corner of her eye.

A boy—the boy—emerged from the darkness, a knife gleaming in his hand, its edge catching the faint light from the streetlamps outside. His fists were unnaturally clenched, as though permanently ready to strike.

Ayano’s heart skipped. It was him, there was no doubt about it. The familiar sensation washed over her like deja vu, a cold knot tightening in her gut as her instincts flared into high alert.

The one who had followed her at the station.

His pale skin stood out against the darkness, and his rounded, straight black hair fell to his shoulders in sharp contrast to his red eyes, which were narrowed in cold calculation. He wore a black suit with a red tie—was it a school uniform, or something else?

The boy’s gaze flickered over the two downed men, his brows furrowing with distaste. “What a sloppy attempt.” 

Without another word, he strode forward, delivering swift kicks to both men while they were down, knocking the air out of them in a single, efficient move.

A petty move, but one he deemed quite necessary.

He then turned his attention to Ayano, walking toward her with slow, deliberate steps. The knife in his hand gleamed with dangerous intent, and Ayano couldn’t help but feel a rush of adrenaline as she realised how much more dangerous he was compared to the two amateurs. 

She stood her ground, though she couldn’t help but sigh inwardly.

Great. Now who the hell was this?

Chapter Text

The cold gleam of his blade reflected the faint light, its edge shimmering.

He circled Ayano with deliberate steps, his every move calculated and precise. Ayano mirrored him, her eyes locked onto his, scanning for an opening, any weakness.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice steady despite the tension crackling in the air.

“I’m…” His lips quivered into a faint smirk, as if the thought had only just occurred to him. “Hm… Nemesis. Your Nemesis.”

The words were spoken with quiet confidence, carrying an almost mocking tone. Before Ayano could retort, he lunged, his blade flashing in the dim light.

Ayano reacted purely on instinct. 

She narrowly dodged the strike and countered with a swift kick aimed at his side. But he sidestepped with ease, his movements unnervingly smooth. 

The clash between them escalated. The confined space filled with the sound of quick footsteps. Grunts of struggle. The occasional metallic scrape of his knife against the floor.

He was good—too good. Ayano realised it quickly. She wasn’t unskilled, but this… Nemesis, as he called himself, moved with a precision that spoke of relentless training. Of a mind honed for this exact purpose. 

Every strike she aimed was countered. Every opening she thought she saw was a trap.

It didn’t take long for him to trip her up. A quick feint followed by a low sweep of his leg sent her off balance, crashing into one of the cafe tables. Her bag, previously perched on it, tumbled to the ground, spilling its contents.

Ayano’s back hit the floor, her breath catching as Nemesis pinned her down. His knife hovered mere inches from her throat.

Her focus sharpened. Her instincts screamed at her to act.

“You’re pretty good,” he murmured, his crimson eyes narrowing in satisfaction. “But not good enough.”

Her gaze flickered to the scattered items from her bag. Among the chaos—the textbooks, the pencils—one thing rolling out caught her eye.

The energy drink Osano had given her earlier.

Her mother’s words surged to the forefront of her mind, a lesson she had tried to forget but couldn’t. There’s only one way to fight—and that’s dirty.

Without hesitation, Ayano’s hand shot out to snatch the can.

It was already shaken from the fall. It was primed and ready. She cracked it open, angling it toward Nemesis’s face. 

The drink erupted out in a fizzy burst, spraying directly into his eyes.

He recoiled with a sharp hiss, momentarily blinded. It wasn’t exactly pepper spray, but it was enough. 

Enough to buy some time.

Seizing the opportunity, Ayano drove her foot into his gut with all the force she could muster. The impact sent him rolling off her, landing beside her with a grunt.

The distant wail of police sirens sliced through the tension, growing louder with every passing second. Nemesis froze, tilting his head slightly as he listened.

“...You got lucky this time,” he muttered, rising to his feet and swiping at his stinging eyes. 

His fingers combed through his now-drenched hair, sending droplets scattering onto the floor as he exhaled sharply, the sound edged with frustration. 

But Ayano definitely wasn’t the one who called the cops. She didn't have the time to.

Ayano’s eyes darted to the man she had subdued earlier, now trembling on the floor. His hand clutched a phone, the screen still lit, his fingers shaking.

He called them?

"Thanks," Ayano scoffed under her breath, though her tone was flat and entirely devoid of gratitude. He probably panicked the moment Nemesis showed up.

Her eyes snapped back to Nemesis, but he was already gone. Just as quickly as he had appeared.

The back door to the alley was slightly ajar, the faintest whisper of movement in the air the only trace of his presence.

The sirens grew louder, and within moments, the cafe was flooded with flashing lights and the sharp voices of police officers. The two men were dragged out, cuffed and sputtering excuses that fell on deaf ears.

The irony wasn’t lost on her: they had called the cops on themselves. Nemesis, meanwhile, disappeared without a trace.

Moments later, the cafe manager rushed out, her face pale and her hands wringing nervously. “Ayano! Oh my goodness, are you okay? I can’t believe those degenerates would actually—” Her voice cracked, and she shook her head, her worry evident. “I should have gotten back sooner. I should have—”

“It’s okay,” Ayano said, her voice flat.

The manager’s fretful words continued, but Ayano barely heard them. She didn’t care about the men being hauled off, nor the concern painted all over her boss’s face. 

Her mind was elsewhere, replaying the fight, the sound of his voice, the way he moved.

Nemesis.

He was better than her. She hated to admit it, but it was the truth. Her fists clenched at her sides as her thoughts spiraled. She had underestimated him this time.

It wouldn’t happen again.

…

Nemesis leaned against a metal desk, his knife spinning lazily between his fingers as he stared at the burner phone in his hand.

The device buzzed. He answered it with a practiced swipe, pressing it to his ear without a word.

"Report," came the voice on the other end, clipped and cold.

His jaw tightened. “The target hasn’t been captured yet.”

A pause. The silence was more cutting than the words that followed. “Hasn’t been captured yet?” The tone was sharp now, laced with venom. “So you’ve already failed twice. What’s your excuse this time?”

His grip on the knife tightened. “I’m an assassin, not a kidnapper. This wasn’t part of my usual skill set.”

In reality, ending her life in that moment would have been effortless. When he had her pinned beneath him, there was nothing she would have been able to do to stop his blade from finding its mark.

The soda, however, had been an unexpectedly clever diversion—annoying, but commendable.

Still, killing her wasn’t the objective. His orders were explicit: Bring her in alive, and don’t get caught.

A dry chuckle echoed through the line. “An excuse. From you? That’s rich. Aren’t you supposed to be the most skilled we have? You should know by now that The Saikous don’t tolerate failure.”

“I am,” Nemesis replied, his voice calm but firm, though the sting of the remark lingered.

“Doesn’t look that way,” the voice countered, disdain dripping from every word. “Maybe we don’t need you after all. We’ve got another plan.”

Nemesis froze. The knife stilled in his hand. “Another plan?” he echoed, his voice low. 

His eyes flicked down to the blade in his hand. Another plan. His mind rejected the idea, the very thought of someone else taking over the mission like an insult to his entire being.

“That’s right. You’re not the only piece on the board. Maybe it’s time to let someone else take over. You’ve already proven you can’t handle this.”

Someone else? He was the best. No one else had the precision nor the cold resolve to handle this mission the way he could.

…Only one person came to mind. An individual with immense power, wealth, and influence. A top-tier fighter and certified genius, trained to perfection, capable of controlling any situation. Someone who could subdue Ayano without even laying a finger on her, using nothing but raw authority and discipline. A Saikou.

And the worst part? That person already attended her school.

“No,” he murmured, his voice low and threatening, though it was barely above a whisper. “No one else touches her. I’m the one who’ll capture her. I will be the one to finish this.”

The line went dead, and Nemesis was left in the oppressive silence of the room. 

For a long moment, Nemesis stared at the phone, the reflection of his grim face staring back at him from the blade of his knife. 

No one else had the skill to finish what he had started. He would bring her in. Alive. No one else could handle her the way he could. No one else would savour the victory.

He had already failed twice, but there would be no third time. He would capture Ayano.

And no one would take that from him.

Ayano arrived at school, slipping through the gates with the rest of the morning crowd, her head bowed forward and her pace sluggish. 

She stifled a yawn, though it did little to mask the exhaustion etched into her features.

Above, the sky was a dull, overcast grey, the thick blanket of clouds smothering the sun while the air carried the faint scent of damp earth.

Last night, in the quiet solitude of her home, with both her parents away, there had been no one to offer guidance, no voice to provide clarity. Just the oppressive silence of the empty house and the ceaseless echo of her own doubts.

It had been a restless blur. Sleep had evaded her entirely, her mind consumed by a single, unrelenting thought.

Why had he attacked her?

She no longer cared about the two intruders who had barged in. They’d been arrested, and, more importantly, their intentions had been crystal clear from the start.

But as for Nemesis… he was a complete mystery.

Every detail of their encounter replayed in her mind on loop. It wasn’t random. Every move was calculated, deliberate, almost like he’d been trained for this specific task. Hired, even.

The questions gnawed at her. No matter how much she tried to piece it together, the answer remained elusive.

The world around her felt muted as she trudged toward the main building. She clenched the strap of her bag tightly, her fingers trembling slightly from how hard her grip was. Each step forward felt heavier than the last, her mind spinning with questions she had no way of answering.

She reached the lockers and, without thought, switched her shoes. The action was so routine, so mechanical, that it required no conscious effort. 

Her gaze drifted briefly to the windows, where the muted light struggled to pierce the clouds.

Even the weather was shitty.

Her mind was so locked in her thoughts that her body moved on autopilot. She barely noticed the student walking behind her until it was too late.

She turned, and before she could register the person in front of her, they collided—hard.

The impact sent her stumbling backward, her bag slipping from her shoulder. She stumbled back precariously for balance, before a strong hand shot out and steadied her by the elbow.

“Sorry,” a voice spoke, deep and apologetic.

Ayano blinked, still dazed from the collision. The person who had caught her was tall, with a strong, athletic build. His dark, slightly messy hair framed his face, and a white headband across his forehead marked him as a member of the martial arts club. 

There was something oddly familiar about him, but she couldn’t quite place where she’d seen him before.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his dark grey eyes scanning her face, lingering a moment longer than necessary, as if trying to place her, too.

“I’m fine,” Ayano muttered, her voice steady despite the disorientation. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

She gave a brief nod, ready to move on, but he stopped her before she could step away.

“Wait—”

Ayano turned back slightly, her patience already wearing thin.

For a moment, he hesitated, the confident demeanor he carried faltering as he searched for the right words. “...Nevermind. I’ll see you around, yeah?”

Ayano’s expression didn’t shift. “Sure,” she replied curtly, before turning and walking away without another glance.

Budo stood there, his gaze fixed on her retreating figure. His brow furrowed, a nagging sense of recognition clawing at him. 

Where had he seen her before?

Meanwhile, Ayano continued to wander aimlessly through the school before classes started, her mind still preoccupied with her own thoughts. She couldn’t afford to let her guard down. She wouldn’t simply sit idly and wait for Nemesis to come after her again.

There was no doubt she had the instincts, but that wouldn’t be enough. 

She needed real training, something that could help her defend herself when Nemesis—or anyone else—came after her again.

…Maybe she should join the martial arts club. Judging by the red armband on his arm, that boy from earlier was the leader, wasn’t he?

She needed answers, yes—but more than that, she needed to be ready for whatever was coming. Joining the martial arts club seemed like a logical next step. If she was going to survive, she couldn’t just rely on intuition alone.

Ayano made her way down the corridor, but as she turned a corner, her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden wave of noise from outside.

Shouts, gasps, and hurried footsteps filled the air as students rushed toward the front gates.

“What’s going on?” someone near her whispered.

“He’s here! He’s really here!” another replied, their voice trembling with excitement.

Ayano frowned slightly, her pace slowing. She glanced toward the source of the racket, where a crowd was already beginning to form.

Curiosity tugged at her, but she kept her distance, watching as more students gathered, craning their necks to get a better view of whatever—or whoever—had just arrived.

Through the gaps in the crowd, she caught a glimpse of sleek black metal. A helicopter, its rotors slowing to a halt, gleamed under the morning sun. Nearby, a long black limousine idled at the curb, its tinted windows reflecting the swarm of eager students.

Ayano’s brow furrowed.

What was with the commotion?

She stopped just at the edge of the corridor, her gaze briefly flicking toward the scene before turning away. Whatever it was, it didn’t concern her. She had more important things to worry about.

But just as she turned to leave, a faint hush fell over the crowd, followed by a ripple of gasps and murmurs.

A tall figure stepped out of the limousine, his polished shoes clicking against the pavement. He moved with a calm, commanding presence, his every step exuding confidence and power.

Ayano glanced over her shoulder, catching sight of him as he adjusted the cuffs of his pristine blazer. His silver eyes scanned the crowd, sharp and calculating, before he began walking toward the school building, the students parting like a wave to let him through.

He carried himself with ease, like someone who belonged wherever he stood.

He wore a crisp white uniform that immediately set him apart, unmistakably identifying him as a member of the student council. 

But he wasn’t just any member—that much was obvious by the excessive fanfare. 

He was the president.

Ayano hesitated, her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer. The student council had always been a peculiar group to her.

And though none of them had ever confronted her directly, there was always the unspoken tension, the undercurrent of animosity she couldn’t ignore.

So why was Megamo here now?

Megamo Saikou. The last name was impossible to escape. It was everywhere—half the school’s appliances bore the Saikou logo, from the cameras in the photography club to the printers in the faculty room. Even Ayano’s phone. And, of course, her parents worked for Saikou Corp, too.

Still, she couldn’t understand the obsession. Sure, he was the heir to the Saikou empire, but did that really justify this level of awe?

What was this, a K-pop idol debut? She thought dryly, watching as the crowd practically fell over themselves just to get a glimpse of him. It was almost ridiculous.

She quickly averted her gaze and turned back down the hallway.

Whatever this spectacle was, it wasn’t her problem.

…

The bell rang, cutting through the chatter of students as they filtered into the classroom. 

Ayano walked in, eyes scanning the room. There were already a few students settled in, but the usual noise of conversation was more pronounced today. The air was filled with excited whispers, murmurs, and a few scattered exclamations.

“Did you see him? He’s like a walking advertisement!”

“Yeah. I have no idea why he suddenly decided to show up after being absent for so long. But his helicopter—dude, it’s insane!”

“Do you think he’ll notice us? I heard he’s kind of cold though.”

Ayano tuned out the noise as she made her way to her desk.

As she walked past the cluster of students still gushing about Megamo’s appearance, Ayano spotted Osano at his desk, already sitting down. 

She remembered the energy drink he gave her yesterday—the one that had, inadvertently, saved her from dying by Nemesis’s hands. He had no idea, of course. It was just a drink to him, an afterthought. But to her, it was a lifeline.

She paused for a second, silently acknowledging the gratitude bubbling inside her. She hadn’t exactly been friendly with him in the past, and maybe she’d been a little aloof at times—he reminded her too much of Osana. 

But she had to admit, he had done something extremely good for her, even if it was unintentional.

She decided it in her head then.

She’d make an effort to be nicer to him, she thought to herself as she placed her bag on her desk, resolving to at least try.

“Good morning, Osano.” She sat down beside him, her tone casual as she spoke, almost absentminded.

Osano froze. His eyes flickered toward her, blinking in surprise. 

He hadn’t expected it. She’d never greeted him like that before. Her sudden politeness had him caught off guard, and for a moment, he just stared at her, unsure how to respond.

He cleared his throat, a little too loudly, before muttering, “Morning.” There was an awkward pause, as if he was trying to regain his composure, his ears turning a vivid shade of red.

Osano shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the red tint on his ears deepening. He glanced away, his face slightly flushed as he focused on the desk in front of him.

It was just a good morning, so why the hell was his heart beating so fast?

Mido-sensei walked in, his presence instantly grabbing the class’s attention. He adjusted his collar before placing a stack of textbooks onto his desk, the soft thud of the books echoing and silencing the room.

“Okay, everyone, get your books out,” Mido-sensei said, his tone shifting to something more focused as he glanced around the room. The rustling of bags and the shuffling of books filled the air as students hurriedly prepared for the lesson ahead. 

Ayano, still a little distracted, reached into her bag and pulled out her textbook, flipping it open to the correct page.

Her mind was miles away, lost in the whirlwind of everything that had happened over the past week. Her pen moved automatically across her notebook, the words meaningless as they blurred together. 

It felt like her entire life had been flipped upside down in such a short span of time, and she couldn’t shake the weight of it all.

Suddenly, a small, torn-out piece of paper appeared in front of her notebook, blocking her view. She blinked, her thoughts pulling her back to the present, and glanced to her right. A random student, someone she didn’t even recognise, was holding it out to her. 

Before she could react, her eyes drifted past them to Osana, sitting just in front, who was subtly gesturing for Ayano to pass it further down. 

Ayano’s gaze shifted again, this time landing on Raibaru, who sat directly behind her, her hand extended expectantly. Raibaru and Osana hadn’t been placed in the same group, so they were seated apart. 

She grabbed the paper, preparing to pass it along, until her eyes caught one word scrawled among the rest: Taro.

Her stomach sank, a knot forming in her chest. She really didn’t want to think about him today. Not with everything else on her plate. She was too tired to deal with it.

Without thinking too much about it, Ayano tore her gaze away from the note, forcing herself not to read any further, even as curiosity gnawed at her. Instead, she folded it and passed the paper to Raibaru, doing her best to ignore the tension the word had just stirred within her.

She shifted in her seat, but as she glanced at Raibaru, she saw her quickly unfold the note. The girl read it for a moment before a quiet giggle escaped her lips.

Ayano tried her best to ignore the situation, pulling her attention back to Mido-sensei, hoping the tension would die down. But as soon as she turned around, her eyes locked with his.

He had seen it all.

“Passing notes in my class?” he suddenly said, his voice cutting through the room. “Unacceptable.” Mido-sensei’s voice rang out smoothly, causing the class to fall silent, all eyes turning to the front. 

Ayano sighed internally. Of course, this would happen.

…

Before Ayano knew it, she found herself outside in the corridor, sitting on the floor alongside Osana and Raibaru. 

Both of them, like Ayano, were enduring the typical Japanese corporal punishment: arms raised high above their heads and held up in a position meant to teach discipline. The cold air from the hallway made it even worse, the lack of sunlight as the clouds covered the sun only adding to the discomfort.

Her arms ached, but worse than that, it felt as though her blood was being drained from her fingertips, leaving her limbs numb and heavy. The cold only made the wait feel even longer.

But that wasn’t what annoyed Ayano. 

She couldn’t help but groan internally—she wasn’t even the one writing or receiving the note—she was just caught in the middle.

So why in the world did she have to get punished too? What about that other random student who had passed the note to her in the first place?

The punishment was meant to instill a sense of conformity, but to Ayano, it felt more like a senseless inconvenience. She was stuck, paying the price for something she didn’t even do.

And Raibaru and Osana chatted away like she wasn’t even there. It wasn’t that they were being rude, but the situation was so absurd that it almost felt like they were trying to make light of it.

Raibaru, glancing at Ayano out of the corner of her eye, raised an eyebrow. “You know,” she said, “you weren’t even part of this whole thing. You didn’t write the note, you didn’t receive it...”

Osana, looking just as uncomfortable in the position, let out a soft sigh. “Yeah, you’re just stuck in the middle of it. Feels a bit unfair, huh?”

Ayano couldn’t help but shoot them a deadpan look. The chill was beginning to seep into her bones, and to top it all off, she hadn’t slept a wink the night before, leaving her feeling completely drained.

Raibaru seemed to soften, her expression turning a bit more sympathetic. “Well, you can put your arms down for now. We’ll let you know if Mido-sensei comes out to check.”

Osana nodded, giving Ayano a half-hearted smile. 

Reluctantly, Ayano lowered her arms, letting out a quiet sigh of relief as the blood slowly returned to her fingertips. 

But then the bell rang, signaling the end of class and the start of lunch, and Ayano immediately braced herself for the return of the unbearable. As Mido-sensei stepped out into the corridor, she quickly lifted her arms again.

“Five more minutes, and then you can go to lunch,” Mido-sensei called, barely glancing in their direction, before walking off to attend to something else. 

Students started to file out of their classrooms, walking past her, Osana, and Raibaru in the corridor.

Ayano’s arms burned with the pressure, but she wasn’t bothered by the whispers or giggles from the students passing by. 

Some chuckled quietly. Others, perhaps more familiar with the punishment, looked on with pity, a few even casting glances toward her with a mix of sympathy and relief that it wasn’t them this time. 

Ayano didn’t care about any of that. The only thing she wanted was for the next five minutes to be over.

But then, he walked past.

Megamo.

He moved through the hallway with his usual self-assured stride, his gaze scanning the space with the same detached confidence he always carried. But as his eyes swept over the students, they faltered—just for a split second—when they landed on Ayano.

His steps slowed, a barely noticeable shift in his posture signaling that something had caught his attention.

He stopped right in front of her, towering over her with an almost suffocating presence. His gaze flicked over her, taking in the position she was in, arms raised and all.

For a moment, his eyes locked onto hers. There was a coldness there, an unmistakable disdain that was impossible to miss. It wasn’t just indifference, it was a deep-rooted contempt, the kind of look someone gives when they see something they despise but can’t quite ignore.

His lips twitched, but it wasn’t a smile—it was something else, a sneer that never quite made it to his face, but the implication was clear.

Ayano didn’t flinch. She didn’t react. She wasn’t interested in his silent games, not now, not in this moment. She was too tired to care about whatever twisted amusement he found in this.

But Megamo seemed to linger there, his gaze sharp and calculating, as if trying to figure out what to make of her, of the situation. He didn’t speak a word.

After what felt like an eternity of him just staring at her, he simply turned away, resuming his walk with that same effortless stride.

Not a second glance back.

…Well, that was strange.

Osana raised an eyebrow from beside her, her interest suddenly piqued. "What? What was that? Do you two know each other or something?" she asked, her tone laced with curiosity. She glanced between Ayano and the corridor, trying to make sense of the brief exchange.

"I don’t know him," Ayano replied flatly.

At least, that was what she thought. So why was he acting like that?

Ayano sat down in the cafeteria, her lunch in front of her. 

She picked up her chopsticks, but as she stared at the food, her thoughts began to wander. 

Her stomach growled faintly, but the food in her lap seemed distant, unappealing. Instead, her mind drifted back to the night before.

The memory of Nemesis, that unsettling feeling of being watched, attacked, gripped at her again. Her eyes flicked around the room, half-expecting to see him lurking somewhere, hidden in the crowd. It was silly, she told herself. He wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t.

But her heart pounded in her chest, and her appetite disappeared. 

She set her chopsticks down, the food suddenly tasting like ash in her mouth. Every shadow in the cafeteria seemed too dark, every corner too suspicious. The paranoia clawed at her, draining what little energy she had left.

She hadn’t slept well the night before. In fact, she hadn’t slept much at all. The lack of rest, combined with the nagging fear that Nemesis was still out there, left her feeling like she was moving through a fog.

Without another thought, Ayano stood up, putting away her food. She didn’t care about lunch anymore. She just needed to get away.

Where could she go? The cafeteria was too loud, the classrooms too crowded. Outside wasn’t an option either—it was too cold, and she didn’t have the energy to deal with the biting wind. She needed somewhere quiet, somewhere she wouldn’t have to think about anything or anyone.

Then it hit her. The infirmary. 

A place where she could lie down, close her eyes, and block out the world, even if just for a little while.

She made her way through the hallways, keeping her head down, her thoughts fixated on the promise of a quiet room and a soft bed.

The corridors stretched on before the familiar sign for the nurse’s office finally came into view, and a small wave of relief washed over her. She reached for the door, eager to step inside and leave everything else behind.

Ayano pushed the door to the infirmary open, her hand hesitant on the frame. The familiar antiseptic scent wafted toward her. Inside, the school nurse—a composed woman in her late thirties with short brown hair and brown eyes—turned to look at Ayano.

“Ah, is something wrong?” the nurse asked, her voice professional.

Ayano offered a polite bow. “I just feel a little fatigued. I was hoping I could rest for a while.”

The nurse nodded, gesturing toward the row of beds with neatly drawn curtains. “Of course. Make yourself comfortable. Let me know if you need anything.”

Ayano stepped inside, her footsteps soft against the tiled floor. But as she approached the beds, her gaze snagged on a figure standing near the far side of the room.

Pink hair. A familiar shade of bubblegum pink that instantly sent a jolt of recognition through her chest.

It couldn’t be.

But it was.

Standing near the supply cabinet was Mujo, his white nurse’s uniform slightly too tight for him. He was fumbling with a tray of bandages, trying to balance it in one hand while adjusting a box on the shelf with the other.

“Mujo…?” she whispered, disbelief colouring her voice.

At the sound of his name, Mujo spun around too quickly, the tray slipping from his hands.

“Wah! Oh no, no, no!” he yelped, scrambling to catch the falling items. Bandages and gauze tumbled to the floor, scattering everywhere. He dropped to his knees, frantically gathering them up. “I-I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

Then he stopped mid-apology, his wide, innocent eyes meeting hers.

“Ayano?” His voice softened, his face lighting up with pure, unfiltered joy. “Is that really you?”

Chapter Text

Ayano, eight years old, sat alone on the swing in her usual spot, the soft creak of the chains almost soothing.

Her father had taken her here once—just once—and she had clung to the memory ever since. 

Since then, whenever her father wasn’t home and her mother was too busy to notice, Ayano would sneak out and find her way back. The playground was her escape, a fleeting sanctuary from the suffocating walls of her house.

For a while, she simply sat there quietly, her legs dangling as the warm wind brushed against her face. 

Until suddenly, without warning, the swing jolted to a stop. 

She turned her head to see a boy gripping the chain beside her, smirking. Another stood nearby, snickering, while a third lingered behind her.

Before she could react, the boy behind shoved her forward. She fell hard, her knees scraping against the gravel.

Ayano hit the ground hard, her knees scraping against the rough gravel. Pain shot through her legs, but she didn’t flinch. 

The boys laughed as she sat there, throwing handfuls of dirt at her.

“Look at her. She’s so weird!”

"She's like a robot!"

Whenever she would come to the playground, those boys were almost always there too. Most of the time, she’d keep to herself, quietly sitting on the swings and pretending not to hear the insults they whispered behind her back. 

She had assumed that was all it would ever be—words. She never thought they’d actually do anything.

Ayano stared at them, her face blank, her dark eyes unblinking. She didn’t move, didn’t speak. She simply watched them, her head tilted slightly as if trying to understand something.

These must have been the boys who picked on that little boy she’d met before.

“…What’s wrong with her?” one muttered, a hint of unease creeping into his voice. “Forget it, let’s go—she’s creepy.”

One by one, they left, their laughter fading as they walked away. 

She stayed where she was, the dirt clinging to her clothes, her knees stinging, but her mind oddly calm. She didn’t feel hurt or angry. She wasn’t even sad.

She didn’t care about the bruises or the insults. They didn't bother her.

What did bother her, however, was the thought of going home like this. Her parents would notice the disheveled state she was in immediately.

Her father would fuss over her injuries, and her mother would too, just not because Ayano had been hurt, but because she hadn’t defended herself.

She could already imagine it.

“You can’t let people walk all over you, dear,” her mother would probably say. “How do you expect to survive in this world if you’re so weak?”

Sneaking out again would be impossible after this.

Ayano sighed softly, brushing the dirt off her hands. The playground was her only solace, the one place where she could breathe. And now, even that might be taken away.

She sat there for what felt like an eternity, unwilling to face the inevitability of going home. 

“Hey... are you okay?”

Ayano’s gaze lifted, her blank expression meeting the wide, concerned eyes of a boy. He was a few years older than her, judging purely by his slightly rumpled uniform, the junior high emblem on his chest faintly glinting. 

His light pink hair caught the sunlight, and there was something disarmingly open about his gentle presence. 

But she didn’t answer, the silence stretching between them. 

The boy tilted his head. “Your knees are bleeding,” he pointed out, his voice tinged with genuine worry.

Ayano glanced down at her legs, where dried blood mixed with streaks of dirt and gravel. She looked back at him, her expression unchanged.

What was there to say? Words felt like an effort, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to waste them.

“Hm. Do you... want me to help?” he asked hesitantly. Without waiting for a reply, he rummaged through the pockets of his shorts and pulled out a crumpled tissue. “Here! I—I mean, it’s not much, but you can clean it with this.”

Ayano stared at the tissue, then back at him. She wasn’t used to people offering her anything, let alone kindness.

The boy fidgeted under her gaze. “Uh... I’m Mujo,” he added quickly, as if the introduction might make her more inclined to take the tissue. “What’s your name?”

“Ayano,” she said softly, her voice almost a whisper.

Mujo’s face lit up with a grin. “Ayano! That’s a pretty name.” He crouched down beside her, holding the tissue out again. “You should really clean those cuts. My mom says dirt makes it worse. Infection and all that.”

Ayano hesitated for a moment before taking the tissue from him. 

She dabbed at her knees, her movements slow and methodical. Mujo watched her intently, his head resting on his hand as he sat cross-legged in front of her.

“Where are your parents?” Mujo asked, his voice gentle but curious.

“At home.”

“Oh.” He blinked, straightening up slightly, unsure how to respond. He scratched the back of his head awkwardly, glancing at the darkening sky. “Well, you should go back. It’s getting late.”

“I don’t want to,” she said simply, her voice steady, as if she were stating a fact rather than defying him.

Mujo tilted his head, studying her for a moment. It was like she was rooted to the spot, unwilling to leave.

“Why not?” he asked softly.

Ayano didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze remained fixed on the ground, her grey eyes unfocused. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, almost detached. “I just don’t want to.”

Mujo watched her carefully, the corners of his mouth tugging into a faint, thoughtful frown. There was something in her tone, in the way she avoided his gaze, that made him wonder what she wasn’t saying.

“So... who did that to you?” he asked instead, his voice dropping slightly, as if sharing a secret.

Ayano didn’t answer right away. “Some boys,” she finally said, her tone flat.

Mujo frowned, his brows knitting together. “That’s so mean! Did they push you?”

She nodded once, her eyes flickering briefly to his.

“Well, they’re jerks,” Mujo declared firmly. “Next time, just yell at them or something. Or, um, you could tell me! I’ll... I’ll scare them off!” He puffed out his chest dramatically, his grin returning. “I’m not very strong, but I can look really scary if I try!”

For the first time, Ayano’s expression shifted—a small, almost imperceptible twitch of her lips, like the ghost of a smile.

“Oh? Did you just smile? Was that a smile?”

“No,” Ayano said quickly, her voice quiet but steady.

“It was! I saw it!” Mujo insisted, his grin widening. 

Ayano didn’t respond, but for the first time that day, she didn’t feel entirely alone.

As Mujo sat beside her, rambling about how he once tripped over his own shoelaces and scared off a dog, Ayano found herself oddly comforted by his presence. 

The world felt just a little less dull with him there.

…

After that day, Mujo found himself returning to the playground every afternoon after school. 

At first, it was just to make sure she was okay—she’d seemed so quiet, so lonely. But over time, it became something more—a friendship that both of them didn’t know they needed bloomed.

He would sit beside her on the edge of the sandbox, talk about the little things in his day, and watch as she silently listened, occasionally offering a small nod or a one-word response. He liked to think they’d grown pretty close.

And there was a quiet sense of satisfaction whenever he saw her walls visibly lower, even if only a little.

But despite being older, there were moments when he felt like Ayano was more mature than him. There was a quietness to her, a calm he couldn’t quite understand. 

Whenever he brought up the boys who had pushed her, trying to encourage her to stand up for herself next time, she only shrugged, as if it had been nothing more than an inconvenience. 

Her indifference baffled him, but he kept his promise to watch out for her.

One afternoon, when he arrived at the playground, he spotted her on the swing as usual, her legs dangling as she stared into the distance. But before he could call out to her, he noticed them—a group of boys.

They were heading toward Ayano, laughing among themselves, their intentions clear. Something in Mujo shifted. Usually, he was easygoing, almost too kind, but now a protective instinct surged within him. 

He quickened his pace, stepping in front of the boys before they could get too close.

“Hey,” he said firmly, his voice sharper than Ayano’s ever heard.

The boys stopped in their tracks, their laughter faltering.

“She’s not bothering you, so leave her alone,” Mujo continued, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

The boys hesitated, glancing at each other. He wasn’t just some little kid like Ayano—he was older, taller, and there was something in his stance that made them think twice.

“...Whatever,” one of them muttered, turning away. The others followed, their bravado quickly fading.

Mujo watched them go, his shoulders relaxing only when they were out of sight. Then he turned to Ayano. She hadn’t moved from the swing, her blank expression unchanging, but there was something in the way she looked at him—a quiet acknowledgement, maybe even gratitude.

He walked over, crouching slightly to meet her eye level. “They won’t bother you again,” he said with a small, reassuring smile.

Ayano didn’t respond right away. Instead, she tilted her head, studying him with that same unreadable gaze. Finally, she said softly, “Thank you.”

And though her tone was flat, the words warmed Mujo’s chest in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

It was in that moment with Ayano he realised—he genuinely enjoyed helping people. There was a sense of fulfillment that came with easing someone’s burden, even if only for a moment. 

It made him feel like he could make a difference, no matter how small. It wasn’t about recognition or praise; it was about knowing he’d done something meaningful, something that mattered.

If not for her, he might never have come to learn this about himself.

But eventually, the afternoons at the playground became fewer and farther between. At first, Mujo tried to keep the routine alive, stopping by after school to check on Ayano. 

But as he started high school, things changed.

His schedule filled up quickly—new classes, new friends, and after-school activities he couldn’t avoid. He still thought about Ayano often, but each day it became harder to find the time to visit the playground. 

When he did, she wasn’t always there. Maybe she had her own routine now, or maybe she just didn’t go as often anymore.

Ayano, meanwhile, noticed the shift. At first, she didn’t mind when Mujo stopped coming as often. 

She figured he’d be back eventually, just like he always had before. But as the days turned into weeks, and then months, she began to realise that something had changed.

She never asked why—never sought him out or tried to hold onto their time together. It wasn’t in her nature to chase after things, even things she cared about. And so, she stopped going to the playground too.

Mujo thought about her sometimes as he walked home from school, passing by the park where they used to sit and talk. He’d glance at the swings, half-expecting to see her small figure there, as still and quiet as ever. But the swings were always empty, swaying gently in the breeze.

For Ayano, it wasn’t so much sadness as it was acceptance. She didn’t resent Mujo for drifting away—she knew it was inevitable. 

People came and went; that was just how life worked. But deep down, she missed the comfort of his presence, the way he’d sit beside her and fill the silence without expecting anything in return.

He was her first real friend.

…

And now, here he was, crouched on the infirmary floor, frantically gathering up spilled bandages like nothing had changed.

Ayano blinked, the present rushing back to her in a wave. She realised she was staring, her lips slightly parted, unable to form a single word.

Mujo, on the other hand, hadn’t stopped smiling. That same goofy, unguarded grin that made her chest clench in nostalgia.

“Wow, Ayano! It’s been forever!” he exclaimed, clutching an armful of gauze and rising to his feet. 

He didn’t even seem embarrassed anymore about the mess he’d made, his entire focus locked on her. “I mean, I—I thought I’d never see you again! How’ve you been?”

Ayano opened her mouth, but no words came out. How was she supposed to answer that? How could she possibly explain everything that had happened since they last saw each other?

“It’s... been a while,” she finally muttered, her voice quieter than she intended.

Mujo’s expression softened, his eyes scanning her face like he was trying to piece together the years they’d lost. 

“Yeah,” he said, almost wistfully. “It really has.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence of the infirmary filling the space between them.

Then Mujo chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re still as calm as ever, huh? Meanwhile I’m over here making a mess.”

Ayano let out a small breath. “You haven’t changed much either. Still as clumsy as I remember.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know this is part of my training,” he said with mock seriousness, straightening up and gesturing to the scattered medical supplies.

”Training?”

He nodded. “Yep. I’m studying to become a nurse, you know. Getting hands-on experience here.”

Ayano hummed quietly in acknowledgment. How fitting. “That actually suits you,” she admitted. “Being a nurse, I mean.”

Mujo paused, his grin softening. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “You’ve always been good at helping people.”

The warmth in his smile deepened, and for the first time in a long while, the quiet weight in Ayano’s chest seemed to ease.

“Then I guess I’m in the right place,” he said softly. “And hey—maybe we’ll run into each other more often now.

”Maybe.”

The bell rang, signaling the end of the school day. 

The noise of students gathering their things and filing out of the classroom echoed in Ayano’s ears, but she barely noticed.

Her mind drifted back to the moment she had shared with Mujo.

She had seen him again. 

How long had it been? Years? It didn’t matter. He had been there, in front of her, just like in the old days. They’d talked through the rest of lunch, right up until the bell forced her back to class, but for that brief time, all her exhaustion simply seemed to fade away.

Ayano stood up slowly, her fingers lingering on the edge of her desk, the last remnants of the encounter with him still clinging to her. She glanced out the window, watching as students spilled out of the building, laughing and talking in small groups.

She slowly began to walk down the hallway, her steps light and unhurried. She reached her locker, her fingers grazing the cold metal as she bent down to change into her outdoor shoes. 

But when she stood up and turned to head out of the school building, she paused mid-step.

It was raining. A light drizzle at first, but it quickly intensified, the steady patter of water against the windows growing louder. 

Ayano glanced toward the sky. Dark clouds had rolled in, blanketing the sunlight in a heavy gray haze. She checked her bag, then cursed internally.

She didn’t bring an umbrella.

Of course. 

Well, this was fine. She would just have to wait until the rain slowed a bit, and then rush home. She didn’t have to go to work today. Ever since that incident last night, the manager gave her the shift off. So she had time to spare.

Ayano walked over to the door, standing near the edge, her eyes automatically flicking toward the window. She stared out at the rain, watching it blur the world beyond the glass. 

This wasn’t so bad, she thought. She didn’t mind the wait. It wasn’t like she was in any particular hurry. And the stillness, the absence of anything demanding from her—it was almost a relief. 

But then, as her gaze drifted toward the gate, she froze.  

Her breath hitched, caught somewhere between her throat and her lungs, refusing to move. Her body stiffened, every nerve alight with a strange, unwelcome but familiar tension that made her feel rooted to the spot, unable to take a step forward or back.

There they were. 

Taro and Osana.

The two stood under the same umbrella, close enough that Ayano could see how their bodies tilted toward one another, the space between them small, comfortable.

To Ayano, it was as though time itself stuttered, the rain falling slower, muffled, like the world had dulled around her.

“You didn’t have to wait for me,” Osana huffed.

Taro laughed softly, his voice calm, patient. “You say that, but you’d be soaking wet if I didn’t.”

Osana turned her face away, her cheeks pink. “I would’ve been fine! I can handle a little rain, you know.”

A sharp ache pierced through Ayano’s chest, so sudden it almost knocked the air from her lungs. 

She couldn’t look away or block out the sound of them, even as the cold, uncomfortable knot in her stomach tightened. 

Her hands, which had been loosely holding her bag, suddenly felt clammy, her fingers trembling. The sight of them—so effortlessly close, so... natural—stung in a way she hadn’t expected.

She clutched her bag tighter, the edges of the strap digging into her palms, grounding her in the only way she could manage.

She didn’t know why it hurt. She knew this would happen, that things were like this. She should have been prepared for this by now, for the way her chest constricted with each second that passed. 

But she wasn’t. She never was, and she wasn’t sure she ever would be.

The ache inside her twisted, gnawing at her, as the gap between them, the space she could never fill, became painfully clear. It wasn’t just a matter of timing or chance. It was more than that. 

She could see it in the way Osana shifted closer to him, pretending it was just to keep the rain off, and in the way Taro didn’t seem to mind, even though Osana’s tone was harsh as ever.

“Whatever,” Osana muttered, glancing away. “Just don’t get the wrong idea, okay? I don't need your help. I’m just… letting you share the umbrella because I feel bad for you!”

Taro chuckled again. “Sure, Osana. Whatever you say.”

It was a truth she couldn’t deny. The connection they shared, the one Ayano would never have, was impossible to bridge. And for the first time in a while, she wondered if it was something she could ever come to terms with.

Ayano zoned out, thoughts spiralling, her gaze locked on the sight before her as if her body refused to let her look away.

Then, suddenly, the world went dark.

Something warm and heavy settled over her head, blocking her vision completely. 

“What the…?” She instinctively reached up, her fingers brushing against the rough fabric, confused. 

It was a jacket.

She tugged it off, fumbling slightly as she tried to free herself from the unexpected weight. When the jacket slipped down from her head, her gaze lifted, and she saw him.

Osoro stood in front of her, hands in his pockets, his eyes fixed on her.

“What are you doing?” Ayano asked, her voice quieter than usual.

Osoro shrugged, glancing toward the two under the umbrella. “You looked like you were about to burst into tears. Figured you didn’t need anymore of that.”

Ayano’s cheeks burned. “I wasn’t—“ She cut herself off, her voice faltering. Her gaze dropped to the ground.

He’d seen her trembling, just like the first time he had found her in the incinerator area. But this time, there was no emptiness in her face, no blank expression. This time, her lips quivered, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears, the vulnerability unmistakable.

For a long moment, the silence between them stretched, thick and heavy. Ayano didn’t look at him, her gaze distant.

Osoro studied her quietly, his eyes tracing the delicate curve of her shoulders, the way her fingers clenched tightly at her sides. He didn’t know why he was still standing there, or why he hadn’t just turned and walked away.

It wasn’t like him to linger in moments like this—moments that made him uncomfortable. Yet, there was always something about Ayano, something he couldn’t shake. Something that held him in place.

Before he could think twice, he moved closer to her, adjusting his jacket around her shoulders.

With a careful motion, he pulled it tighter around her, the fabric wrapping snugly around her body like a shield from the rain. 

“Keep it,” he said. “You look like you’re freezing.”

Ayano hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of the jacket as she finally looked up to meet his gaze. “I can’t just take your jacket,” she protested weakly. “It’s like… your trademark.”

“Yeah, you can. Consider it a thanks for the food.”

Her lips parted in confusion before she realised he meant the bento she’d given him yesterday. “That’s not… That was just my leftovers. I wasn’t expecting anything for it.”

“Too bad. You’re getting something anyway.” 

He then began to button the jacket up slowly, his fingers moving with an unfamiliar care. One by one, the buckles clicked, and he couldn’t help but feel how strange it was—this simple, almost intimate gesture. 

When he finished, he reached behind her, gently freeing her ponytail from where it had gotten caught underneath the collar, letting her hair fall free.

He stepped back, and silence fell between them once more, the rain pattering softly in the background. 

Ayano’s gaze instinctively drifted back to Taro and Osano, still sharing their umbrella.

Noticing, Osoro shifted to the side, stepping into her line of sight and blocking her view again.

“You should go home,” he said abruptly. “Standing here staring at them isn’t going to do you any good. Besides, the rain’s only going to get worse.”

Ayano stiffened, her jaw tightening. “I wasn’t staring.”

He arched an eyebrow, but didn’t press her further. “Suit yourself. But you can do better, you know.”

“What?” 

He shrugged again, turning away. “Just saying. You’re wasting your time on him.”

But before she could respond, he’d already started walking away, his hands shoved in his pockets.

Ayano stood there for a moment, watching him go, before her gaze drifted down to his jacket wrapped around her. The smell of it mingled with the scent of rain, slightly musky, tinged with something metallic, sharp but not unpleasant. 

It was strangely comforting, the warmth sinking into her skin. It wasn’t hers, this warmth—didn’t belong to her—but it settled deep in her bones.

And as she stood there, the rain continuing to fall beyond the edge of the doorway, she let herself lean into that warmth, just for a little while longer.

Ayano lay sprawled on her bed, staring at the ceiling. 

The steady rhythm of rain against the window still filled the room, the only sound breaking the heavy silence.

It was already Saturday, and it was still pouring. No school. No work. Just the suffocating emptiness of the house.

The quiet gnawed at her, a persistent reminder of the thoughts she was trying to avoid. No matter how hard she tried to push them away, her mind kept replaying the image of Osana and Taro under that umbrella, standing so close, their world completely separate from hers.

She exhaled sharply, rolling onto her side.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, pulling her out of her thoughts. She hesitated before reaching for it, her fingers brushing against the cool surface.

A message from Info-kun.

"Really? You see Osana and Taro sharing an umbrella, and your first move is to take another guy’s jacket?”

Ayano frowned, her grip tightening on the phone. It was hard to tell with him, but there was a bite to his words that she couldn’t ignore. He was probably just instigating again.

“Is watching me all you do?”

“Among other things.”
“I hope you haven’t already forgotten your true goal here. And for the record, you could’ve just used my app to ask for an umbrella. Seems simpler, don’t you think?"

“What I do isn’t your concern.”

“Everything you do is my concern, Aishi.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line as irritation flared within her. She turned off the phone without replying, tossing it back onto the nightstand with a bit more force than necessary.

She couldn’t stay here, not in this silence that dragged her deeper into herself. The quiet would swallow her whole if she let it.

Swinging her legs off the bed, Ayano stood and grabbed her bag. She needed to go somewhere—anywhere. Even with the rain pouring outside, she didn’t care.

Right. Groceries. She had to go get groceries.

She grabbed an umbrella and paused, her gaze drifting to the window one last time. The rain continued its relentless rhythm against the glass. But she stepped outside anyway, opening the umbrella as the cold air greeted her with a bracing chill. 

Her footsteps echoed softly on the wet pavement as she walked down the street, heading in the direction of the subway station. The rain fell steadily, forming tiny rivers along the curb, but she paid it little mind. Her thoughts were hazy, her focus set on reaching town.

Then, something made her stop.

A faint sound from above.

She tilted her head, listening.

"Meow."

Her eyes followed the sound to a tree just a few steps ahead. There, perched precariously on one of the lower branches, was a drenched cat. Its fur clung to its small frame, and its bright eyes stared down at her, a mix of desperation and curiosity in its gaze.

Ayano lowered her umbrella slightly as she stared back at the little creature. The cat let out another plaintive meow, shifting nervously on the slick branch.

"Ayano?"

The voice startled her, cutting through the steady patter of rain. She turned, her grip on the umbrella tightening.

Osano stood there, dressed in casual clothes—a hoodie and jeans that somehow made him look even more boyish. His umbrella was tilted at an angle, droplets sliding off its edges. He blinked at her, clearly not expecting to run into her.

“What are you doing out here?” he started, but then he heard it—the soft meow from above.

His gaze shot up, locking onto the cat perched in the tree. His entire demeanor changed in an instant. The casual curiosity was replaced by wide-eyed concern.

“A cat?” he exclaimed, his voice rising in pitch. “There’s a cat stuck up there!”

Ayano watched, slightly taken aback, as Osano stepped closer, staring up at the cat with the intensity of someone facing a life-or-death situation.

She blinked, momentarily taken aback by the sheer drama of his reaction. Was this guy serious? It was just a cat.

“It’s fine,” she said, her tone even. “It’s just a cat. It’ll come down on its own eventually.”

“Are you kidding me?” Osano shot back, incredulous. “Look at it. It’s soaked and scared! What if it slips and falls? We have to help it.”

Ayano’s gaze flicked from Osano to the cat and back again. The cat let out another mournful meow, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel the same urgency he did.

“And how exactly do you plan to do that?” she asked, raising a brow. “Climb the tree in the middle of the rain?”

“If that’s what it takes, yeah,” he retorted, stepping toward the trunk like he was about to scale it then and there.

“You’ll just end up falling and hurting yourself. Then I’ll have to deal with that too.”

Osano paused, glancing back at her. “So what? You’re just going to stand there and do nothing while it cries for help?”

The cat let out another pitiful sound, its small frame shaking from the cold. It wasn’t her problem. It really wasn’t.

But she found herself wavering, anyway.

“Fine,” she muttered. “But we’ll do this the smart way.”

Osano grinned. “Alright! What’s the plan?”

The two of them quickly assessed the situation. Ayano pointed out a low-hanging branch that might support Osano’s weight, while Osano—energised by his clear love for cats—offered to be the one to climb. 

Ayano found herself holding the umbrella over him as he carefully hoisted himself up, her expression stoic despite the absurdity of the situation.

“Be careful,” she said flatly as he reached for the branch.

“I’ve got this,” he assured her, though his footing was less than graceful.

She almost rolled her eyes. If he fell, then she’d have to drag his injured self to a hospital. What a hassle.

But, somehow, he didn’t. After a few tense moments, he managed to coax the cat closer, his voice soft and oddly soothing as he reached out.

“Pspsps… Come here, kitty,” he murmured, his tone so gentle it almost caught her off guard. The cat hesitated but eventually allowed itself to be scooped up, curling into his chest as though it had been waiting for him all along.

“I got it!” he called triumphantly, cradling the shivering creature to his chest as he climbed back down.

Ayano watched him land safely, a small part of her relieved despite herself. The cat meowed again, shifting into Osano’s arms as if sensing it was finally safe.

Raindrops dotted its fur, and its trembling hadn’t stopped entirely. Its coat was a bright orange, a bit scruffy and matted from the rain, but still striking. Ayano couldn’t help but notice how much it resembled Osano.

“See?” Osano said, grinning at her. “Teamwork.”

Ayano glanced at it, then at Osano. “It doesn’t have a collar,” she pointed out, her tone matter-of-fact. “It’s probably a stray.”

Osano frowned, his expression softening as he looked down at the cat. “A stray? Out here in this weather? That’s horrible.”

Ayano shrugged, adjusting her umbrella to cover both of them better. “It happens. Strays are everywhere. They survive.”

He shot her a look, half disapproving and half incredulous. “Survive? You say that like it’s fine for it to just wander around, cold and hungry.”

“It’s a cat,” she replied, her voice calm. “It’s probably tougher than it looks.”

Osano wasn’t convinced. The way he held the cat, cradling it like it was something fragile, made that abundantly clear. “But what if it’s not? What if it’s starving or sick? It doesn’t even have anywhere to go.”

Ayano sighed. She could see where this was heading. “So, what are you going to do? Take it home with you?”

He blinked at her, the idea clearly only just dawning on him. “I mean… yeah, I guess I could.”

“Do you even know how to take care of a cat?”

Osano hesitated, glancing at the feline in his arms. “How hard can it be? Food, water, a place to sleep… right?”

Ayano tilted her head, watching him closely. He was serious about this. Of course he was. He had that determined look again, the same one he’d had when he was ready to climb the tree without a second thought.

“Well, what else am I supposed to do?” he asked, a hint of defensiveness in his voice. “Leave it out here to fend for itself? No way.”

For a moment, she said nothing, her gaze drifting between him and the cat. Finally, she shrugged. “Your call. But you should at least take it to a vet first. Make sure it’s healthy.”

“Right,” he said, nodding as though that was already part of his plan. “A vet. Good idea.”

“And get it some proper food,” she added. “Not whatever random scraps you have lying around.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I get it. You don’t have to lecture me.”

Ayano’s expression remained neutral, but there was the faintest flicker of amusement in her eyes. “Just trying to make sure you don’t regret it later.”

“I won’t,” he said confidently, glancing down at the cat, which had stopped trembling and was now curling up against his chest. “It’ll be fine. I’ll figure it out.”

She watched him for a moment longer before finally stepping back. “Well, good luck with that. I’ve got things to do.”

“Wait, you’re just going to leave me with this?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

“You’re the one who decided to rescue it,” she said simply, turning away.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, though there was no real frustration in his tone.

As Ayano walked away, she glanced back briefly to see Osano standing there, the cat still nestled in his arms, looking oddly content.

He was ridiculous, she thought, but the faintest hint of a smile ghosted across her lips before she turned back to the rain.

Chapter Text

Ayano stepped into the grocery store, the automatic doors sliding open with a soft hum. 

She shook off her wet umbrella by the entrance, droplets scattering onto the mat, before folding it neatly and tucking it under her arm. 

Eggs, bread, milk, rice, soy sauce, she reminded herself, repeating the list in her head as she grabbed a basket and started down the aisles. Her movements were unhurried, her eyes scanning the shelves for the items she needed.

The faint clatter of other shoppers and the occasional squeak of cart wheels filled the air, but Ayano paid it little mind. She turned a corner, spotting the soy sauce she needed on a shelf near the end of the aisle.

Her gaze narrowed slightly as she realised it was placed inconveniently high.

Ayano approached the shelf, setting her basket down at her feet. She reached her arm up, fingers brushing just shy of the bottle. Frowning, she shifted on her toes to gain a bit more height, but it wasn’t enough.

Great. 

What was the next course of action? She glanced around, noting no nearby employees. Find a stool? Climb the shelf? Ask for help?

She stretched again, determined to manage on her own. But just as her fingertips grazed the edge of the bottle, she froze.

A warmth pressed close behind her. Not touching, but near enough that she could feel it.

A hand—steady, warm—reached up from behind her, effortlessly grabbing the bottle she’d been struggling to reach.

Ayano turned her head, her breath catching in her throat as she found herself face-to-face with…

Taro.

Of all people, it just had to be him.

She froze completely. Her pulse quickened as his scent reached her—clean, with a faint cologne so utterly average it should have been forgettable. But no, it wasn’t. 

Because it was him. 

Somehow, it lingered, warm and unobtrusive, yet maddeningly captivating in a way that sent her mind spinning.

“Here,” he said, his voice as gentle as ever.

Her heart stumbled over itself, the sound of his voice somehow too much and not enough all at once. Why did it have to be him? Why did he have to sound like that? Like kindness itself, wrapped in a casual tone, with no idea of the conflict he caused her.

Her throat suddenly felt dry as her mind scrambled for words, her composure slipping through her fingers like sand.

“T-thank you,” she stammered, her voice quiet, almost fragile. Her fingers brushed his as she took the bottle, and for a brief, excruciating moment, the warmth of his skin lingered. She clutched the bottle tightly, as though holding on to it might steady her racing heart.

Don’t look at him. Don’t even think about it.

But how could she not? The space suddenly felt suffocatingly small, her every sense acutely aware of his presence. She could still feel the faint heat where his hand had been, and her gaze betrayed her for just a moment, catching his.

Taro tilted his head slightly, his expression calm, maybe even a little curious, as if he was trying to read her. She tore her eyes away, her heart thudding painfully against her ribs.

“No problem,” he replied, his tone light and friendly. It was so casual, so easy, as if this interaction didn’t mean anything to him at all. And why would it? To him, it was just a small act of kindness. 

To her, it felt like the world had stopped spinning.

“Oh, you go to Akademi, right? Aren’t you that girl I bumped into before?” Taro asked, his tone casual but laced with a hint of recognition.

Ayano’s breath hitched. He remembered her?

“Uh… yeah, I think so,” she replied, keeping her voice as neutral as possible, pushing down the fluttering in her chest.

Taro smiled, a soft, easy expression that somehow made her chest tighten. “I thought so. What’s your name?”

For a moment, she hesitated, her usual guarded nature fighting with the idea of sharing even this small piece of herself. “…Ayano,” she said finally, her tone clipped but polite. “I’m a second year.”

“Nice to meet you, Ayano,” he replied, her name rolling off his tongue in a way that made her stomach twist in a way that was uncomfortable yet not entirely unpleasant. “I’m Taro.”

She knew that already, of course. 

“Wait, are you in class 2-1? You must know my friend Osana, then,” Taro added, his tone conversational.

Right. Osana. How could she possibly forget? “I… know her, yeah.”

“Cool. Well,” he continued with a small smile, “I guess I’ll see you around, then.”

He turned and walked away, leaving Ayano standing there like a statue, frozen in place, her heart hammering in her chest as his words lingered in the air.

See you around.

This was only the second time he’d spoken to her directly. The second. And yet, it felt like he was threading himself into her thoughts, weaving into parts of her she didn’t even want to acknowledge.

No. Snap out of it, Ayano. Get a grip.

She hastily dropped the bottle into her basket, her movements stiff and hurried. 

Her pulse still hadn’t settled, and she could feel it thrumming in her ears like a distant drumbeat. Without a glance back, she made her way to the checkout.

Her fingers fumbled slightly as she paid, the soft jingle of coins slipping from her hand bringing her out of her thoughts. She offered a quick nod to the cashier, grabbed her bag, and headed for the exit.

Outside, the rain had stopped. The air felt damp and heavy, carrying the faint, earthy scent of wet pavement. She paused under the awning, glancing up at the grey sky.

Her grip on the bag tightened as she stepped onto the sidewalk. The world around her felt muted, softened by the lingering mist. Yet, her thoughts were anything but calm. She sighed sharply, shaking her head as if the motion might dislodge the memory. 

Eyes forward. Just get home.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t notice the figure approaching until it was too late.

Her shoulder bumped into something firm, the impact jarring her back to the present. Her bag wobbled, a carton of eggs teetering dangerously near the edge.

“Sorry,” she blurted out, looking up.

“Ayano?”

Amao’s voice was tinged with pleasant surprise as he took a step back to steady himself. His bag, brimming with baking ingredients—flour, sugar, and eggs—shifted slightly in his grip as he adjusted it.

Ayano paused, momentarily stunned. She was already flustered from her unexpected interaction with Taro, and now she’d gone and bumped into Amao.

For a second, her mind scrambled for composure, her heart stubbornly refusing to settle. 

Forget about Taro, she told herself. Focus. “Amao. Sorry about that,” she repeated again, her voice more measured this time, though her cheeks betrayed her with their warmth.

“No, no, it’s totally fine,” Amao assured her, waving it off with a sheepish smile. “Honestly, I wasn’t paying attention either. Happens to me all the time.” 

There was a pause as his gaze lingered on her, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “Are… you okay?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. He noticed the faint flush on her cheeks, the way her normally calm expression seemed slightly disoriented. She was always so composed, so blank. This was… different.

“Huh? Oh—yes. I’m doing great. Splendid, actually.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them, and as soon as they did, she wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Splendid? Who even says that?

What in the world was Taro doing to her?

Amao blinked, clearly caught off guard, before a laugh bubbled out of him—soft, genuine, and just a little amused. “Splendid, huh? That’s… good to hear.”

Ayano looked away, her fingers tightening slightly around her bag. “I mean… yeah. Everything’s fine.”

“Well, if you say so.” Amao shifted his bag again, glancing down at her groceries. “Are you heading home? You’ve got quite a bit there.”

“Yeah, just… running errands,” she said quickly, eager to redirect the conversation. “What about you?”

“Me? Oh, I’m grabbing some things for baking,” he replied, holding up his bag. “I was thinking of making cookies. Or maybe brownies. I haven’t decided yet.”

Her brow lifted slightly. “Baking? In this weather?”

“Why not? Rainy days are perfect for it,” he said with a grin. “Besides, it’s a good excuse to stay warm and eat something sweet. You should try it sometime.”

Ayano stared at him for a moment, unsure how to respond. “Well, I’ll… think about it,” she said finally, her tone neutral.

“You should. And, uh…” He hesitated for a second, his smile softening. “If you ever want to join in, let me know. I wouldn’t mind the company.”

She nodded quickly, muttering a quiet, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Amao beamed at her before stepping aside to let her pass. “Take care, Ayano.”

She managed a faint nod, muttering a hurried goodbye as she brushed past him. Once she was out of earshot, she let out a long breath, her grip on her bag tightening.

Splendid. Absolutely splendid.

The tap of Ayano’s shoes against the pavement filled the quiet street as she walked home, her grocery bag swaying slightly at her side. 

The air still carried a faint chill from the earlier rain, and the gray clouds above seemed reluctant to part completely. When her house came into view, she felt the usual wave of indifference. It wasn’t home so much as it was a place to exist, to carry out the motions of life.

As she reached the gate, her gaze fell on the mailbox mounted near the door. It was old and slightly rusted at the edges, but functional. She hesitated briefly before lifting the lid.

Inside was a single envelope, a crisp white against the dull interior. Her name was written in neat, precise handwriting across the front.

She could recognise her mother’s handwriting from anywhere.

Ayano’s fingers brushed the edge of the paper as she pulled it out, her movements measured. She stood there for a moment, staring at the envelope, before finally tucking it under her arm and stepping inside.

The house was quiet, as it always was. 

She set her bag on the counter, methodically unpacking the groceries. Eggs in the fridge. Bread on the counter. Soy sauce in the cupboard. 

Once everything was in its place, she sat at the small table by the window, the envelope in her hands. The silence of the room pressed against her as she traced her fingers over the handwriting, a faint crease forming between her brows.

She slid a finger under the flap and opened it carefully. Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded neatly.

Unfolding it, her eyes scanned the words, her grip on the edges tightening slightly.

"Dear Ayano,
We hope this letter finds you well. It’s been some time since we’ve heard from you, and we wanted to check in. Life has been busy here, as always. Your father sends his regards.

Take care of yourself, Ayano. We know you’ll make us proud.

But remember, life isn’t just about hard work. It’s about building a future. You have so much to offer, and I know you’ll soon find someone who makes you feel whole. Someone who gives you purpose, as I always said, was your destiny.

Be smart, dear. I trust you won’t make any bad decisions.

With love,
Mother and Father.

P.S. Your weekly allowance has been deposited. Use it wisely, Ayano. And don’t hesitate to reach out if you need anything."

Her gaze lingered on the last line, the words feeling weightless. She supposed she should be grateful, but the thought left her cold. Ryoba hadn’t even bothered to explain what exactly they were doing in the United States.

She folded the paper back into its original creases, setting it down on the table. Her face betrayed nothing, but her hands rested still against the table’s surface, unmoving.

Was she supposed to believe Taro was her destiny? The idea was laughable, and yet…

He had an undeniable effect on her—an inexplicable pull that left her thoughts scattered and her heart racing. But destiny? Was that all this was supposed to be?

Her mind betrayed her, conjuring an image of Taro with Osana, the familiarity between them like a knife twisting in her chest.

He had Osana.

The thought stayed as she climbed the stairs to her room, each step heavy with the weight of indecision. Once inside, she sank onto her bed, her posture stiff, her gaze zoning out into the middle distance. The rain had stopped, but the overcast sky outside mirrored her thoughts—clouded, uncertain.

Or maybe… maybe it wasn’t about making the right choice, she thought, her fingers absentmindedly toying with the hem of her sleeve. 

Perhaps she could make the path she chooses the right one.

Her mother’s words echoed in her mind, intertwined with Info-kun’s cold, calculating advice. Eliminate Osana. Remove the obstacle.

…But what then? Would she even be able to compete?

Ayano leaned back, her head hitting the wall softly as she stared up at the ceiling. Would it even matter?

Her chest tightened at the thought. Was it possible to pursue Taro without following the Aishi legacy? To win his heart without the methods ingrained in her family’s bloodline? To just be… a normal girl?

The idea was as terrifying as it was tantalising, an impossible dream clawing at the edges of her mind. She wanted him. She wanted the warmth he carried, the way his presence made her feel like the world wasn’t so empty.

But could she ever truly have him without giving in to the legacy she was born into?

Ayano shook her head and willed herself to stop thinking about it. No. She had already resolved to live a quiet life. The cycle—it ended with her. She wasn’t going to follow in her mother’s footsteps or let some ridiculous fate dictate her future. She needed to stop thinking about it.

Okay, right. What next? Household chores. Dry cleaning. 

She glanced at the clock—late afternoon. The light outside had a soft, golden hue to it, a reminder that the day was slipping away, but there was still time to be productive.

Ayano stood up and grabbed her keys. It was a small task, but somehow the weight of it felt comforting. A chore, something simple. She could handle that.

Stepping out of the house, she breathed in the cool air, feeling the lingering dampness of the rain. It had stopped, but there were still droplets hanging from the leaves, catching the light like little diamonds. It was peaceful.

Her thoughts began to drift again, back to the small encounter with Taro in the grocery store, but she shook them away. She wasn’t going to think about him. Not today, even when the universe seemed set on it.

She was going to pick up the dry cleaning, get the chores done, and get on with her life.

…

When Ayano finally reached the dry cleaner’s in Shisuta Town, her eyes fell on the sign hanging in the window: “Closed for lunch.”

Just her luck.

She stared at it for a moment, expression blank. A soft exhale escaped her lips—barely audible, but it carried a trace of quiet exasperation. She slipped her phone out of her pocket, checked the time, and slipped it back in. 

She wasn’t annoyed, exactly, but it felt like yet another reminder that the world didn’t revolve around her plans.

“Yan-chan!”

The sudden voice made her pause mid-thought. She turned her head slowly, only to find Kokona and Saki heading toward her. Kokona was practically glowing with excitement, while Saki wore the kind of grin that usually spelled trouble.

Why was she bumping into so many people she knew today?

Ayano regarded them silently for a moment before responding in her usual, polite monotone. “Oh. Hey.”

“You’re exactly who we needed!” Kokona beamed, clasping her hands together like she’d stumbled upon a miracle.

“...Needed for what?” Ayano asked, her tone even, though her gaze flicked between them with mild suspicion. She had a feeling Kokona was going to drag her into something she’d regret again.

Kokona stepped closer, a bundle of excitement. “It’s perfect timing! We’re one girl short for our gokon tonight, and you’re here, so—”

“Gokon?” Ayano repeated, her voice betraying neither curiosity nor confusion, though she had no idea what Kokona was talking about.

“Wait, you don’t know? You’re so cute, Yan-chan.” Saki leaned in, her grin widening. “A mixer. A group blind date. You know, guys, girls, chatting, maybe flirting. No big deal.”

Ayano blinked, her expression deadpan. “No.”

Kokona waved her hands in a pleading gesture. “Wait, don’t say no yet! It’s not like a serious thing—it’s just for fun! You just talk, maybe sing karaoke, and it’s over before you know it!”

Ayano’s blank stare didn’t waver. She didn’t particularly care about singing or chatting, and the idea seemed pointless.

“It’ll be quick,” Saki added, looping an arm around Ayano’s shoulder before she could react. “Come on, just one time. You don’t even have to try, you’re already pretty enough to impress anyone.”

Kokona nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly! And if it’s awful, we’ll leave early. Together.”

Ayano stared at them for a long moment, her face giving nothing away. But internally, she weighed her options. Going home would mean more time alone with her thoughts—of Taro, especially—and the idea of spending an evening distracted, however ridiculous it sounded, might not be the worst thing.

“Fine,” she said at last, her voice flat.

“Yes!” Kokona cheered, while Saki gave a triumphant laugh, already tugging Ayano in the direction of the nearby karaoke place.

Ayano followed, her expression calm as ever, though a faint sense of dread stirred in her chest.

When they arrived at the venue, Ayano stood at the entrance, quietly observing the small group of boys waiting inside. There were three strangers—ordinary-looking and clearly from another school. She barely spared them a second glance until her eyes landed on the last one.

Fair skin. Black hair. A red hair clip holding back his bangs.

He was ordinary too, in a way, but there was something about him that struck her immediately.

Their eyes met, and a chill ran down her spine.

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, as though the sight of her had caught him off guard.

Ayano’s gaze lingered on him for a moment too long, though her face remained perfectly composed. She didn’t know why, but something about him felt… familiar.

“Hey, you okay?” Saki whispered, nudging her gently.

Ayano blinked, breaking eye contact. “I’m fine,” she replied, her voice steady, but her thoughts were far from it.

Who was he?

…

The karaoke room was filled with a lively energy that Ayano felt utterly detached from. 

The neon lights embedded in the ceiling flickered erratically, cycling through garish pinks, blues, and greens, casting distorted shadows on the faces of the group. A blaring pop song blared from the speakers, its bassline vibrating through the worn leather seats and into Ayano's bones.

Saki and Kokona had taken to the setting like fish to water, laughing, singing, and engaging the group in conversation with an ease Ayano couldn’t fathom. She sat at the edge of the group, her hands loosely wrapped around a glass of soda, her expression as neutral as ever.

The introductions began, names bouncing around the room. Ayano barely registered them, offering a polite nod whenever someone glanced her way but otherwise keeping to herself.

The names blurred together. None of them mattered.

But then came the last one.

“I’m Hanako Yamada,” the boy said, his voice smooth, almost too pleasant.

Ayano’s fingers tightened around her glass.

“No way!” Kokona gasped, her eyes lighting up as she leaned forward. “Like Yamada, as in Taro Yamada? You’re Taro’s brother?”

Hanako’s smile widened, his head tilting in a playful, almost coy manner. “That’s right! You know my brother?” His tone was cheerful, almost overly so, and Ayano detected a faint dissonance—a practiced quality to his enthusiasm.

“He’s our upperclassman!” Kokona gushed.

Hanako chuckled. “Aw, Taro is great! But he can be so serious sometimes. Someone has to remind him to loosen up, you know?” 

Ayano’s stomach twisted. She came here to stop thinking about Taro, to escape the whirlwind of emotions he stirred in her. And now his brother was here?

Hanako’s gaze darted to her, lingering for a fraction of a second too long, as if he were testing her, waiting for a reaction. 

Ayano said nothing, her expression unreadable, but her mind was racing. There was something about Hanako that set her on edge, and it wasn’t just the fact that he was Taro’s brother. No, it was something deeper.

Hanako tilted his head, his smile as bright as ever. “Ayano, was it? Or... can I call you Yan-chan? You’ve been so quiet! Don’t tell me you’re shy.”

Her eyes met his, cool and steady. “I’m just observing,” she replied simply.

His smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Observing? Hm, I like that. You can learn a lot about people by… watching them.”

The way he said it made Ayano’s instincts bristle. There was an edge to his words, like a blade hidden beneath silk. She forced herself to remain calm, but her grip on her drink tightened.

Saki and Kokona were too busy chatting with the others to notice the subtle tension between them. But Ayano couldn’t ignore it. Hanako’s eyes flicked to her again, his facade firmly in place, but she could feel the weight of it.

This wasn’t just about Taro. Hanako wasn’t what he seemed. And Ayano was certain of it.

As the conversation flowed around her, she observed him quietly. His demeanor was overly childish, almost too sweet, as if he were putting on a show. It was in the exaggerated tilt of his head, the too-wide grin, the way his gaze flitted over everyone without truly landing.

“…Let’s make this more fun,” Kokona suddenly declared, her voice cutting through the chatter. “How about a drinking game?”

The boys cheered in agreement, already reaching for their drinks. Saki smirked, grabbing the bottle in the center of the table.

“What game?” one of the boys asked eagerly.

“‘Never Have I Ever,’” Kokona said with a grin. “Simple, right? If you’ve done it, you drink. If you haven’t, you’re safe.”

Ayano inwardly sighed but stayed quiet. It was easier to go along with this than to draw attention.

The game started lightheartedly, with innocent confessions and laughter echoing through the room.

“Never have I ever skipped school,” one boy said, earning drinks from almost everyone.

“Never have I ever kissed someone,” Saki teased, watching with glee as Kokona blushed and took a sip.

Ayano barely paid attention, her thoughts swirling as she tried to ignore Hanako’s presence. But then it was his turn.

Hanako tapped his chin in mock thought, his smile as sweet as ever. “Never have I ever… gotten into a fight.”

The group erupted into chatter, some boasting exaggerated tales while others laughed nervously. Ayano froze. The words hit her, dredging up memories she’d rather forget. The calculated movements, the cold precision, the glint of a blade.

She glanced at Hanako, who was watching her now, his eyes glinting with something dark and knowing.

“Well?” he asked, tilting his head innocently. “Have you?”

Ayano’s instincts screamed at her. There was something deliberate in the way he asked, as though he already knew the answer. Slowly, she raised her glass and took a small sip, her movements measured and calm.

She was sure of it now. 

And it was her turn next. “Never have I ever been drenched in soda,” she said in retaliation, her tone casual but her words chosen with purpose.

The group’s reaction was mixed—confused chuckles from some, amused smirks from others. To them, it was a strange, almost trivial statement, one that barely fit the tone of the game. 

But Ayano wasn’t speaking to them.

Hanako’s expression shifted. For a fraction of a second, his smile faltered, and a flicker of something bitter passed over his face. Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

With a drawn out sigh, Hanako picked up his glass and took a sip. “Guess I’m guilty,” he said lightly, his tone playful.

Then, he leaned in closer so only Ayano could hear. “Careful,” he whispered softly, his voice dropping to a tone that sent chills down her spine.

Her chest tightened, the words igniting her instincts. 

That voice. That tone.

Her eyes locked onto his face, studying him more closely now. The black hair, the pale skin, the deliberate mannerisms that seemed too familiar. 

His eyes weren’t red this time, but the feeling was unmistakable.

He was Nemesis.

Ayano stood curtly, her face as expressionless as ever. “I need to go to the bathroom,” she announced, her tone clipped but steady. Without waiting for a response, she slipped out of the karaoke room and into the hallway, her footsteps echoing faintly against the polished floor.

Hanako watched her leave, his expression wavering for the briefest of moments before snapping back into place. “Actually, I need to go too,” he said with a laugh, standing up and following her out.

The hallway was a complete contrast to the noisy chaos of the karaoke room. It was quiet, the soundproof walls muffling the music and laughter.

Ayano turned the corner at the end of the hall, her movements purposeful. Hanako trailed behind casually, his hands in his pockets as he hummed to himself.

But the moment he rounded the corner, he was already caught in her trap. 

He barely registered the blur of movement before his back hit the wall with a dull thud. Ayano had him pinned, her grip tight on his shirt as she slammed him back with a force that surprised him. Her free arm pressed firmly against his throat, not enough to choke him but enough to make her intentions clear.

Her dark eyes bore into his, cold and unyielding. “Why are you here?” she asked, her voice dangerously low.

Hanako blinked, momentarily startled, but his surprise quickly melted into a familiar grin. “Whoa, whoa,” he drawled, raising his hands in mock surrender. “What are you talking about, Yan-chan? You’re scaring me. I just had to use the bathroom—is that a crime?”

“You can drop the act,” she replied, her tone as sharp as a blade. “What I’m asking is—why are you here?”

For a moment, Hanako’s facade cracked. His smile faded, and his gaze sharpened, meeting hers with equal intensity. “Fine,” he muttered, his voice dropping its cheerful lilt. “I didn’t even know you’d be at this gokon. You were a last-minute replacement, weren’t you?”

Her grip didn’t loosen, her forearm still pressing against his throat. “That doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

Hanako sighed, his expression shifting into something closer to exasperation. “Look, I didn’t want to mix my personal life and… other life, but it just had to be you, of all people. I’m not thrilled about this either.”

“You’re the one who gave yourself away in the first place,” she remarked.

Hanako tilted his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “What could I do? From the way you were staring so hard at me, it was clear you’d already seen through my act. Or…” His voice dipped into a teasing lilt. “Am I just that good-looking?”

Ayano's eyes narrowed as she tightened her grip on his shirt. “So, what do you want?” 

“Right now?” He cocked his head to the side. “A truce.”

Ayano scoffed, her tone laced with skepticism. “A truce? How convenient for you, Nemesis.”

“Hanako,” he corrected. He was Hanako right now. “And it’s only practical,” he countered smoothly. “I’m not here to cause trouble, Ayano. I didn’t even know you’d be here tonight. So how about we both pretend this never happened and go back to our drinks like normal people?”

Like normal people? So she’d just have to pretend this guy wasn’t a whole assassin with an alter ego who had been actively trying to attack her? It was laughable.

But at least now she had something up her sleeve. She knew his real name. Hanako Yamada. It was a small piece of leverage, but it was enough. She could file it away for later, use it against him when it mattered. 

Though the real question was, why? Why in the world did Taro’s brother have it out for her?

Her forearm pressed harder against his throat for a split second, enough to make his breath hitch, before she released him abruptly.

“I don’t trust you,” she said flatly, taking a step back.

“Good,” Hanako said, rubbing his throat as he straightened his shirt. “I wouldn’t trust me either. But for now, let’s keep things civil. No need to ruin the party, right?”

Ayano didn’t respond, her cold gaze lingering on him for a moment longer before she turned on her heel and walked away.

Hanako followed, his footsteps quiet behind her as they returned to the karaoke room.

…

The gokon came to a close, and as Ayano stepped out of the karaoke place, Saki and Kokona flanked her, their voices a chorus of energy. 

Kokona bounced on her heels, her face flushed from the night’s excitement. “That was so much fun! Right, Yan-chan? You were so quiet, but I could tell you were enjoying it!” 

Saki, her eyes narrowed with teasing curiosity, leaned in closer. “And you and Hanako, huh?” she said, her voice laced with a mischievous edge. “I saw you two coming back from the bathroom together. What happened? Spill the details.”

Ayano kept her expression neutral, the same blankness that had carried her through the night. “...Nothing much,” she replied, her tone flat, unwilling to indulge in their probing questions.

But Kokona wasn’t satisfied. She grabbed Ayano’s arm and shook it playfully. “No way! You totally hesitated just now!” she giggled. “That was hesitation, right, Saki? We’re not imagining things, are we?”

Saki raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at her lips. “Definitely hesitation,” she agreed, her gaze fixed on Ayano with a teasing glint. “So, what happened between you two?”

Ayano let out a breath. “There’s nothing to tell.”

The girls continued to chatter as they made their way out of the karaoke place and into the cool night air. The streets were quieter now, the sounds of their conversation blending with the occasional passing car and distant chatter of other late-night revelers.

Ayano walked with them, her mind distant, but the small piece of information she had gained tonight—Nemesis’s name—remained at the back of her thoughts. She could feel the weight of it, the knowledge that, now, she wasn’t entirely in the dark. 

But she wouldn’t let her guard down. Not with someone like him.

By the time they reached the subway station, Kokona was still chattering away, while Saki had fallen into a more comfortable silence alongside Ayano.

When she finally arrived home, she slipped into the quiet of her house, the familiar solitude wrapping around her. 

The door clicked shut behind her, and she leaned against it for a moment, eyes closed. 

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, pulling Ayano’s attention. She glanced at the screen and instinctively thought of Info-kun.

But when she unlocked her phone, she let out a breath when she realised it wasn’t from him. It was just a message from the manager at the maid cafe.

“Ayano, can you work tomorrow? Security’s been tightened since the incident, so I’d really appreciate it if you could take the shift.”

Ayano typed a quick “okay” and sent it.

Tomorrow, she thought, she’d deal with it. For now, she just needed to rest.

Chapter Text

The manager’s eyes gleamed with enthusiasm as she addressed the staff.

“Despite the recent incident, I think it’s time we bring back something fun. Remember how we used to do weekly themes? I say we revive that tradition!”

It was clear that, above all else, the manager was a businesswoman. She understood the importance of keeping the cafe fresh and appealing in such a competitive industry.

But her voice carried a slightly forced brightness, a thin veil over the underlying concern still lingering from what had happened days ago. 

It wasn’t lost on Ayano. The woman wasn’t just trying to keep the cafe relevant—she was trying to keep morale up. Employees were easier to manage when they weren’t on edge.

Ayano didn’t particularly care either way. Themes or no themes, she would still wear whatever ridiculous uniform they handed her and do her job, as long as it paid right.

But she could already hear the others whispering excitedly, guessing what the first theme would be. Something cute, probably. Maybe something gaudy and extravagant. It didn’t matter.

Before dismissing everyone, the manager turned to Ayano, her usual businesslike demeanor softening just a fraction.

"Wait, Ayano. Here."

She pressed a small canister of pepper spray into Ayano’s hand. It was sleek, compact—designed for convenience, but undeniably effective.

"I already handed these out to the rest," she added. "Be more careful from now on, alright? What happened the other day was a wake-up call. I don’t want any of my staff getting hurt."

Ayano glanced at the canister briefly before slipping it into her pocket without a word. It was a useful thing to carry, though of course she hoped she’d never have to use it in the first place.

Once the meeting ended and the cafe opened, Saku-chan sidled up to Ayano, concern written all over her face.

“Yan-chan, are you okay after what happened with those two intruders? I heard about it and—”

"I’m fine," Ayano cut in smoothly, her voice as even as ever. "Barely got a scratch. If anything, the intruders were the ones in danger."

Saku-chan let out a relieved chuckle. "That’s so like you… Well, um, don’t push yourself this time, okay? You can take the job of holding the sign outside instead of doing service work."

…

Before Ayano could even protest, she found herself standing outside the cafe, gripping a sign and silently sighing at her predicament. Out of all possible tasks, this was by far the worst.

Why? Because this significantly increased the chances of someone from Akademi spotting her.

So far, during her shifts, she hadn’t seen a single familiar face from school among the customers. And she liked those odds. But standing outside, exposed to the public? Anyone simply passing through town could see her.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, the real humiliation came from today’s theme. Fluffy bunny ears sat atop her head, completing this ridiculous display.

She glanced down at the sign she was holding: "Welcome! Today Only: Bunny Maid Service! Let us serve you, master!"

Forget about everything. Do your job. This was not that bad. Think about the money. She repeated the words in her head, willing herself to believe it—until she caught sight of a familiar figure in the distance.

Nope. Screw that. Ayano barely had a second to react before she instinctively hoisted the sign up to cover her face.

Aso had been fresh from his morning run, still riding the high of his workout, when something caught his eye. He skidded to a stop, blinking.

Was that—?

He did a quick double take, but all he saw was a cafe sign propped up on the sidewalk. Behind it, a pair of legs peeked out the bottom, clad in frilly stockings, and just above the top of the sign, a pair of bunny ears.

Ayano tensed when she heard footsteps approach. They were energetic, deliberate, and unmistakably familiar. She stiffened, hoping—praying—that Aso would just walk past. But of course, fate wasn’t on her side today.

She listened as his footsteps slowed.

Then stopped.

A pause.

And then, she felt it—that distinct presence lingering far too close for comfort.

Aso was standing right in front of her.

She could practically feel his curiosity.

He stepped to the side, trying to peek behind the sign.

But without missing a beat, Ayano shifted it with him, blocking his line of sight.

“...Are you interested in coming in?” Ayano’s voice emerged from behind the sign, perfectly even, as if this were just another customer interaction. Just a normal employee. Just a normal conversation.

Aso narrowed his eyes slightly. That voice…

He took another step to the side. She mirrored him instantly.

Another pause.

Then, his lips curled into a grin. “Ayano?”

Damn it. 

Ayano sighed and lowered the sign just enough for their eyes to meet.

“Is that a question or an accusation?” she asked, her tone dry.

Aso let out a bark of laughter, blue eyes widening in delight as he took in the full sight of her—bunny ears, maid outfit, and all.

“Ayano, what are you wearing?”

She stared at him, expression as flat as ever. “I’m working.”

Aso’s grin only widened, like he had just stumbled upon the greatest discovery of his life. “No way. You? At a maid cafe? This might be the best thing I’ve seen all week.”

Ayano refused to dignify that with a response. But, to be fair, Aso was probably the best-case scenario for someone to find out about her part-time job. Based on the interactions they’ve had so far, albeit very few, he didn’t seem like the type to spread rumours.

He tilted his head, arms folding across his chest. “Who knew the dodgeball prodigy would be working at a maid cafe? You really are full of surprises.”

“Don’t call me that,” she deadpanned. “That time was just beginner’s luck.”

Aso raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. “Oh, really? And I suppose it’s beginner’s luck that I’m seeing you now, too.”

Before Ayano could respond, the cafe doors swung open, and Saku-chan marched out with a determined stride, positioning herself directly in front of Ayano like a knight shielding a princess.

"Yan-chan, is this man bothering you?"

Her voice—normally sweet and airy—had dropped into something deep and gravelly, an intimidating growl that sent a visible chill through the air. It was the kind of voice that belonged to a grizzled war veteran or a final boss in a fighting game.

…Was that really Saku-chan? 

Aso blinked. "Wait—no." He held up his hands in surrender.

"Huh? Oh, um…" Ayano hesitated, momentarily thrown off by the unexpected display of aggression. "No, he’s…"

She considered explaining. Was Aso bothering her? No, not really. He was just… Aso.

Aso gestured vaguely between them. "I’m not bothering her—or, I mean, maybe I am, but not—"

"It’s okay, Saku-chan," Ayano cut in, her voice as calm as ever. "He’s a friend."

Aso turned to her, eyes widening slightly. "I am?"

For a split second, something warm flickered in his chest—unexpected but not unwelcome. He hadn’t really thought about it before, but hearing Ayano, of all people, call him a friend felt... kind of nice. Like he’d won some sort of invisible prize without even realising he was playing.

Maybe it was because Ayano didn’t seem like the type to hand out words like that lightly. 

She had mostly said it to keep Saku-chan from going full demon mode. But now that the words were out, she wasn’t sure if they were entirely accurate.

She wasn’t exactly an expert on friendship. Had that been wrong to say?

They weren’t not friends. Aso talked to her the same way he did with everyone else, and she tolerated him. They spoke without any ulterior motives or expectations. No hidden agendas, no obligations, no transactional benefit.

That was practically friendship, right?

And just like that, Saku-chan’s entire demeanor did a full 180. Her shoulders relaxed, her expression softened, and the deep, menacing voice vanished as if it had never existed.

"Ohhh! I’m so sorry!" she chirped, clasping her hands together, back in full customer-service mode. "I didn’t realise! I’ll leave you two to it, then!”

With that, she gave the two a wink before she practically skipped back inside, humming as if she hadn’t just been ready to throw hands a moment ago.

Well, at least Ayano knew she’d have her back in the case of a real dilemma.

Ayano shifted the sign in sync with his movements, keeping half her face covered. “So are you interested in coming in or not?” she asked, her voice flat, clearly hoping to divert the conversation.

Aso squinted at her. That tone—yep, definitely Ayano. His grin widened. “Not today, but wow, now I really want to.” 

Ayano said nothing, holding the sign like it was a shield.

Aso chuckled. “Don’t worry, don’t worry! I’m not gonna go around telling people.” He made an exaggerated zipping motion across his lips. “Your secret is safe with me.”

Then without warning, he reached out and ruffled her hair, his hand lingering just a second longer than necessary. “Besides,” he added, flashing a teasing grin, “I don’t know if I’d want anyone else to see you like this.”

Ayano blinked. For a split second, she was too stunned to react. Then, without a word, she adjusted the bunny ears back into place and slowly raised the sign higher, covering her entire face.

Aso burst out laughing. “Okay, okay! I get it, I’ll stop!” He took a step back, still grinning ear to ear. 

She remained silent, watching him through the tiny gap between the sign and her fingers.

“Well, see ya!” Aso called, already turning to leave, but at the last second, he glanced over his shoulder with a cheeky grin. “Actually… maybe I should come in next time. What do you think? Would you serve me, Yan-chan?”

The only response he got was the sign tilting ever so slightly—like she was about to swing it at him.

Laughing, Aso jogged off.

Ayano slowly lowered the sign, watching him disappear into the crowd. She let out a small, almost imperceptible breath of relief. Good thing it was just Aso.

…

It was, in fact, not just Aso.

Ayano had stepped back inside, relieved to finally do some actual work. 

The cafe was lively as ever, filled with the soft bustle of conversation, the clinking of teacups, and the occasional playful call of "Master!" or "My lady!" from the other maids. 

Slipping into her usual rhythm, Ayano had begun taking orders, moving efficiently between tables while keeping her expression neutral. The routine was easy to settle into.

But then she saw a familiar head of soft pink hair walk through the entrance, the bell on the door chiming softly to announce his arrival.

It couldn’t be.

But it was.

Mujo strolled in, his eyes flitting across the cafe before he picked a seat by the window. Sunlight streamed through the glass, catching in his pastel locks. He sat comfortably, completely unaware of Ayano’s silent stare.

“Not bad, huh?” A voice beside her broke her thoughts. Ayano barely had time to process before one of her coworkers, a fellow maid, leaned in with a teasing smirk.

“He’s pretty cute, right? Go on, you can take his order. I’ll get the other tables.”

“No, I—” Ayano started, but it was too late. Her coworker had already spun around and left her standing there, tray in hand.

That was exactly what she didn’t want to do.

But there was no way out of it now. Suppressing a sigh, Ayano approached his table, her usual composure intact.

"What can I get for you?" she asked smoothly—then hesitated for just a second before reluctantly adding, "...Master."

Mujo, oblivious as ever, didn’t bat an eye. His attention was fully on the menu in front of him, his expression scrunched in thought.

“Hm… I think I’ll get the strawberry shortcake and—wait, do you guys have caramel syrup? If so, maybe a cappuccino? Or no, maybe an iced latte? Ahh, but the matcha looks good too…”

He finally glanced up mid-ramble, and in an instant, his eyes went wide.

“Ayano?!”

Ayano met his gaze, unfazed. “Who else?”

Mujo blinked. Then, as if processing everything at once, his face lit up in delight. “I didn’t know you worked here! You look… really cute.”

Ayano let out a small breath. At least he wasn’t teasing her or making fun of the outfit.

“Thanks,” she replied simply.

Mujo leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "You should've told me you worked at a place like this! I would’ve visited sooner."

"I didn’t think it was relevant."

He let out a laugh, and his eyes softened with something close to nostalgia. “You really haven’t changed, huh?”

Something about the way he said it made Ayano pause. She studied him, noting the way his voice carried that same familiar warmth from when they were kids.

"...I guess not,” she murmured.

Mujo brightened. “Oh! Actually, I forgot to ask before, but—” He fumbled in his pocket, nearly dropping his phone before managing to unlock it. “Can I have your number? I mean, since we lost touch and all…” He glanced up at her, a little sheepish. “It’d be nice to actually catch up, for real this time.”

Ayano hesitated. She wasn’t the type to exchange numbers so easily, but Mujo… Mujo wasn’t just anyone. 

Plus, their first reunion in the school infirmary had been far from ideal, cut short by Mujo rushing back to his job and the school bell pulling Ayano away to class. Maybe next time, they could actually have a proper talk.

With a small nod, she reached for her own phone, typing in his number before handing it back.

Mujo grinned, looking downright giddy. "Awesome! Now I can text you whenever! Maybe we can even hang out sometime?"

Ayano arched an eyebrow. "Aren’t you a busy nurse-in-training?"

Mujo waved a hand. "I can make time for my best childhood friend!"

Best childhood friend?

Ayano blinked at him, but before she could process that statement, another voice called from the counter, snapping her back to reality.

"Yan-chan! Quit flirting and get back to work!"

Ayano turned to her coworker, unamused. She sighed quietly, slipping her notepad back into her apron. "Your order will be out soon," she said before walking off.

Behind her, Mujo only smiled, propping his chin on his hand as he watched her go.

…

Mujo finished his meal with a satisfied wipe of his mouth, the napkin crumpling slightly in his hand as he leaned back in his seat. With a stretch, he stood, his movements slightly uncoordinated as he gathered his things.

“See you, Ayano!” he called.

Ayano gave a small nod of acknowledgement, her eyes following him as he made his way to the door. He stepped outside, disappearing into the bustling street.

Once he was gone, Ayano waited a moment longer, her eyes lingering on the space where he had been. Then, with a quiet shift in her posture, she moved toward the table. She took a damp cloth from her apron pocket and began to wipe it down.

But as she leaned down to gather the last of the crumbs, her gaze caught something left behind. 

A jacket, wrinkled where Mujo had hastily thrown it over the back of the chair. She paused, the soft sigh escaping her lips before she could stop it. For a fleeting moment, she considered leaving it. It wasn’t uncommon for Mujo to forget things, and he might return for it.

But… it wouldn't be right to leave it there unattended, so she reached down and carefully lifted the jacket, folding it with practiced ease. She draped it over her arm, the fabric warm from where Mujo had been sitting, before bringing it to the back.

Ayano stepped out of the cafe, the cool late afternoon air brushing against her face as she closed the door behind her. 

The familiar chime of the bell echoed faintly in the background, marking the end of another shift. It had went relatively smoothly—maybe aside from the fact that two people she knew found out about her job in the span of one day.

And also if it weren’t for the fact that Mujo hadn’t come back for his jacket. She sighed, adjusting where she was holding it on her arm.

She pulled her phone from her pocket, unlocked it, and scanned her sparse list of contacts: Mom, Dad, Info-kun, Manager, Mujo.

That was it.

She deadpanned at the screen, unimpressed with herself. Maybe she should make some more friends.

With a soft exhale, she pressed Mujo’s name to open the chat. The cursor blinked as she typed a message out quickly.

“Where do you live?”

She stared at the message for a moment too long, her brow furrowing a little. 

Okay, maybe not the best way to start a conversation.

But it was too late now, it had already been sent. It was just a simple question, she reasoned. Nothing weird about it. She wasn’t going to overthink it.

She tucked her phone back into her pocket and stood still for a moment, her face as blank as ever. Waiting. Nothing to do now but see how Mujo would respond to that completely normal, perfectly acceptable text.

Ayano turned to head toward the subway station, her footsteps steady, when her phone vibrated in her pocket. She paused, then reached into her pocket to check the notification.

“Oh, I live in the apartment complex near the playground we used to always go to. You know, the one with the big tree out front? Why?”

It was casual, as though he hadn’t even given a second thought to her somewhat odd question. There was no hesitation, no confusion—just a straightforward, typical Mujo response.

Birds of a feather really do flock together.

“You left your jacket at the cafe.”

“Ahh nooo I didn’t even realise, I’m so sorry Ayano!”
“I can come get it later if you want…? :’)”

“No need. I'll come return it to you.”

Her reply was short, direct, and left no room for discussion.

With that settled, she slipped her phone back into her pocket and resumed her walk, her steps unhurried as she made her way toward the station. 

…

The subway came to a smooth halt, and Ayano stepped off at the stop closest to the park. 

Her footsteps were steady as she crossed the familiar path, the sights and sounds of childhood nostalgia brushing past her.

When she reached the apartment complex, she came to a halt, scanning the entrance. She glanced down at her phone, double-checking the address Mujo had sent. 

Her gaze flickered briefly to the apartment directory before she walked inside and stepped into the elevator. The doors slid shut with a soft chime, and she pressed the button for the correct floor.

As the elevator hummed to life, she leaned slightly against the wall, watching the numbers ascend. The ride was quiet, interrupted only by the gentle ping when she reached her destination.

Stepping out, she moved down the hallway with light but purposeful steps, stopping before the apartment number Mujo had provided. She double-checked the text, then the number on the door.

Okay. This was the right one.

With a quiet breath, she raised her hand and knocked.

After a bit, the door creaked open slowly, and Ayano’s gaze lifted expectantly—only to pause.

The man standing before her was not her pink-haired childhood friend.

Instead, she was met with someone entirely different—a man with damp, brown hair and a towel around his neck as if he had just stepped out of the shower. His eyes, thin and a striking shade of red, contrasted against his otherwise soft features. 

He stared at her for a brief moment, his gaze flickering with mild surprise before his expression shifted slightly in recognition.

Ayano’s eyes trailed downward, and—

He was shirtless.

She immediately snapped her gaze back up to his face, her neutral expression unchanging despite the brief lapse in composure. Unfortunately, that chest was unmistakable.

“Mido-sensei…?”

Why in the world was he here?

“Ayano?” Mido blinked, clearly caught off guard. Then, as if a switch had flipped, his initial surprise melted into a knowing smirk. He leaned lazily against the doorframe, crossing his arms as he looked her up and down, amusement dancing in his eyes.

Well, well, what a turn of events, he thought. So even she couldn’t resist him in the end. Not that he could indulge in the idea. She was his student, after all. But it wasn’t the first time one had turned up unannounced like this.

He let the silence stretch, as if allowing her time to absorb the ‘inevitability’ of the situation. Then, with a self-assured air, he spoke.

“Listen, I’m flattered, really, but…” His voice dripped with playful arrogance.

Ayano didn’t react. Instead, she looked down at her phone, swiping through the message thread to check the address again. No, this was definitely the one Mujo had sent.

Mido waited for a response—maybe a stammered excuse, an awkward confession—but none came. Instead, Ayano simply lifted her blank gaze back to him.

“But, you know, I’m your teacher and all—”

“Why are you here?” she interrupted flatly.

The words sliced through the air, and Mido’s smirk faltered. He hesitated, his usual self-assurance cracking under the weight of her utter disinterest.

Before he could muster a response, a voice called out from deeper within the apartment.

“Who’s at the door?”

Mujo’s voice was light and easygoing, laced with a subtle eagerness. The door swung open further as he stepped forward, unceremoniously brushing past Mido without a second thought.

Mido barely had time to process the shift before realisation dawned on him. 

“Wait, you’re not here for me?” His tone carried a note of bemusement, his eyebrows arched. 

Ayano didn’t even spare him a glance. She simply lifted the jacket, extending it toward Mujo. “Here,” she said.

Mujo’s face broke into a warm smile. “Ah, thanks, Ayano.” His voice was as light and sincere as ever, his fingers closing around the fabric as he held it to his chest.

Mido, still watching the exchange, narrowed his eyes slightly.

Hold on.

Why did she have Mujo’s jacket?

Ayano turned to Mujo once more, her expression as unreadable as ever. “Why is Mido-sensei here?”

Mujo blinked, then glanced back at Mido with casual ease. “Oh, him? He’s my roommate. Wait, how do you—”

“He’s my teacher.”

“Oh, right! I almost forgot he worked at Akademi, too. What a coincidence.”

Mido scoffed, muttering something under his breath, his usual arrogance having deflated ever so slightly. 

“I have to go now,” she murmured. She’d returned the jacket, so there was no need to linger any longer.

"Okay! Text me when you get home," Mujo said, his usual warmth laced with casual concern.

"Sure," Ayano replied without hesitation. It was just a simple request. Nothing unusual, nothing worth thinking twice about. And yet, there was something oddly pleasant about it. 

The idea of texting someone—a friend, at that—who wasn’t her parents, her manager, or Info-kun felt... different. Almost nice.

Mido, on the other hand, nearly choked on absolutely nothing, his gaze snapping between the two of them. Text?

Ayano gave one final nod of acknowledgement. Then, without another word, she turned on her heel, pausing briefly at the door frame to call back over her shoulder.

"Bye, Mujo. And… Mido-sensei."

As she walked away, Mido watched her retreating form, his lips curling into a wry smile. She could feel Mido’s gaze following her, as if still trying to puzzle something out.

“…Why did my student have your jacket, Mujo?” 

“Your student? She’s my friend.”

By the time Ayano arrived home, the sky had long since darkened, the city outside her window bathed in a quiet glow of streetlight. 

The familiar stillness of her house greeted her as she stepped inside, toeing off her shoes. She moved through the motions without thought—locking the door, turning off the hallway light, setting her bag down in its usual spot. 

Her fingers reached for her ponytail, loosening the tie with a slow pull. Dark strands tumbled past her shoulders, and she combed through them absently before making her way toward the bathroom. As she did, her phone buzzed in her pocket.

With a quick glance, she saw a message from Mujo—just a casual check-in. She typed back a response about how she got home safe then turned it off and stepped into the shower.

The steady rush of water filled the air as steam curled against the cold tiles. She stepped under the showerhead, letting the heat seep into her skin, rolling down her back, washing away the remnants of the day. She closed her eyes, tilting her face up to the spray.

For a moment, she allowed herself to just exist.

But her thoughts never truly quieted, did they? They would always eventually drift… back to Taro.

She inhaled, shutting off the water. Enough.

After drying off, she slipped into her usual sleepwear—a loose camisole and shorts—then moved through the rest of her nightly routine. 

There was no reason to stay up late. School awaited her in the morning.

...Actually, no. That wasn’t right.

Only now did she remember—tomorrow was Akademi’s sports festival. Tachikawa-sensei had mentioned it during PE.

It was by far her least favourite school event of the whole year. The day would likely be filled with physical activities and competitions, and Ayano knew she needed to be well-rested to handle the day without feeling drained.

Great. Now she really had a reason to sleep early.

But as she left the bathroom, she hesitated.

Instead of going straight to bed, she drifted toward her desk. Her fingers traced over the edge of a notebook before flipping it open, her eyes scanning the pages of neatly written notes.

Usually, on nights like these, she would study for hours until her vision blurred. Memorise full textbooks, practice problems she already knew how to solve. Not because she needed to be on top—she could ace every exam with half the effort. But that wasn’t the goal.

Being smart drew attention. Average was safer.

So she studied until she knew exactly where the average score would land. Just high enough to seem competent. Just low enough to stay invisible.

If not over the world around her, she could at least have control over something as simple as that. At least, that was how she saw it.

She twirled Taro’s pencil—the one she’d stolen and claimed for all her note-taking since—between her fingers as she read the notes.

Finally, exhaustion settled into her bones. With a quiet sigh, she switched off the lights and climbed into bed.

Her body sank into the mattress, but her mind remained alert, thoughts running in endless loops.

…Then, her phone vibrated.

Ayano’s fingers automatically reached for it, already assuming it was her manager. Again. Maybe another shift change, maybe something about the cafe. She unlocked the screen, barely paying attention.

But the name staring back at her wasn’t her manager’s.

It was Info-kun.

She blinked.

Why was it never the person she expected?

She stared at the screen for a moment longer before opening the message, her grip on the phone firm.

Whatever he wanted, she supposed she’d find out now.

“Ayano."

That was it? Seriously? Ominous.

She stared at the message, debating whether to just turn off her phone and sleep. But something about the simplicity of it—just her name—made her hesitate.

Why did he always have to be like this? If he had something to say, he should just say it. No cryptic nonsense, no suspense. Just get to the point or don’t text at all.

With a sharp exhale, she typed back, her fingers moving before she could even second guess her decision.

"What?"

The reply came almost instantly.

"Osana Najimi. She’s planning to confess to Taro on Friday."

Her grip on the phone tightened, the cool metal pressing against her palm.

She knew this moment would come eventually. It was unavoidable. But was she not allowed even one day without having to think about him? 

She had handled the way the two talked every single morning. Had endured watching them eat lunch together, side by side, too close, too comfortable.  She had ignored the way they walked home together, laughing under the same umbrella when it rained. Had forced herself to ignore the sting, convinced herself it was fine, that she could bear it.

But if Osana actually confessed?

If Taro said yes?

Her heart clenched. Not in shock, but in something deeper, heavier. 

Another buzz.

"Underneath the cherry blossom tree behind the school. Romantic, right?"

She didn’t reply. She couldn’t. Just stared at the screen, expression blank but thoughts racing.

Of course, Info-kun wouldn’t say that because he believed in romance. He said it because he wanted a reaction out of her. Because he was always watching, always pulling at invisible strings just to see how she would move.

She stared at the message, refusing to let him get to her. Refusing to let herself overthink why he told her this at all.

He was just doing what he always did. Feeding her information, nudging her in a direction, like a whisper in the dark.

But still, something about it felt personal.

She left him on read, but then the next message came, persistent, unwavering.

"Fine, ignore me. But don’t ignore Osana. You only have one week."

Ayano locked her phone and set it down beside her. The glow of the screen faded, but the weight in her chest remained.

One week.

…What was she going to do?

Chapter Text

The Akademi Sports Festival was officially underway.

The sun hung high in the sky, casting a golden glow over the field, while the crisp morning air carried the hum of excitement. Students were scattered across the grounds—some stretching in preparation, others engaged in animated conversation, and a few already groaning about their impending exhaustion.

A teacher’s voice rang out through the speakers, cutting through the early-morning chatter.

“We will begin with the female students first. All female participants, please proceed to the starting line.”

Ayano made her way toward the starting line of the red track, seamlessly blending into the crowd of female students gathering for the first event: a marathon. As always, she decided she’d settle on the middle ground. Nothing too fast, nothing too slow. Just average.

The shuffle of sneakers against the ground followed as students moved into position. Some stretched with forced determination, others whispered empty words of encouragement to themselves. A handful sighed in dramatic resignation, already accepting their defeat before the race had even begun.

“Ugh, I’m screwed,” a girl near Ayano muttered, tugging idly at the hem of her gym shirt.

“Same,” her friend groaned. “I’m terrible at running.”

A brief pause. Then, as if struck by divine inspiration, the first girl perked up.

“Wait… what if we run together? That way, even if we get a bad ranking, it won’t be as embarrassing.”

The other blinked, then nodded eagerly. “You’re right! At least we won’t suffer alone.”

Ayano simply observed them with mild detachment. An alliance had just formed before her very eyes.

It was a common occurrence. When people recognised their weaknesses, they sought refuge in numbers. It was an unspoken understanding, an instinctive safety net. A mutual agreement to share in failure rather than face it alone.

The starting signal rang.

Ayano set a steady pace, keeping just behind the two girls as they jogged together, laughing lightly at their own sluggishness. Their speed wasn’t impressive, but it was comfortable—at least, for now.

“Hey, slow down a little,” one of them panted after a while, her breath coming in short bursts.

“This is too fast?” her friend asked. A brief silence. Then— “...Then, I’m going ahead.”

Ah. So much for alliances. 

In the end, self-preservation always came first. Weakness may have drawn them together, but personal interest would always pull them apart. It was inevitable. When faced with the choice between loyalty and self-gain, hesitation rarely lasted long.

Ayano passed the girls without a second glance, her thoughts already elsewhere.

Back to Info-kun.

The rhythmic pounding of her feet on the track faded. The morning chill on her skin, the faint burn in her legs—it all blurred into the background.

As she ran, her mind replayed their brief conversation that morning. The moment she’d silenced her alarm, his notification had appeared.

"One week.” It had been a reminder. Or a taunt. Maybe both.

Her fingers had hovered over the keyboard, sluggish from sleep, her mind still tangled in the haze of morning drowsiness. She wasn’t in the mood for it, for his incessant need to remind her of things she hadn’t forgotten, least of all for it to be the first thing she wakes up to.

"I know."

A reply just short enough to acknowledge him but too indifferent to invite further conversation.

Not that it had ever stopped him.

"Good. Then I assume you’re making progress."

"It’s none of your concern."

"I’d argue that it is."

"Then argue with yourself."

"Like I said, I’m just trying to help.”

A pause. Then, his next message had come.

“Use me, Ayano."

…How ridiculous. He’d made it sound like he was some tool at her disposal, like he wanted—no, needed —her to rely on him. As if she’d ever be that foolish.

It had been like he was waiting for her to step forward, to take what he was offering. To trust him. As if it were that simple.

But it wasn’t.

Trust is a liability. It creates vulnerability. Vulnerability leads to mistakes. And mistakes… are deadly. That was the lesson she had been raised on.

Not the kind that was spoken outright, but the kind instilled through careful actions. Through watching her mother’s every move, through absorbing the way she operated—always calculating, always guarded, always in control.

Info-kun claimed to be useful. Claimed he only wanted to help.

But trust came with strings. Always. And his? They were invisible, coiled tight, waiting for the moment she let her guard down.

As much as he tried to frame the relationship as transactional and mutually beneficial, deep down, she knew that if she gave in, she’d be putting her life in his hands. He was perfectly capable of throwing her under the bus at any moment, all while walking away unscathed.

In retrospect, his claim was almost laughable. He was practically offering an alliance—a partnership wrapped in calculated words, held together by services and promises she had no reason to believe in.

And she’d just seen with her own eyes, only minutes ago, how easily alliances without any solid foundation could crumble.

There was no way in hell she was going to trust him.

A cold gust of wind snapped her back to the present.

As she neared the finish line, her pace remained steady, her breathing controlled. Though a faint burn tingled in her legs, she wasn’t particularly fatigued. She crossed the line without fanfare, slowing to a walk as she glanced at the results board.

18th place.

Good. Not too high, not too low, but right in the middle. Exactly as she intended.

Ayano continued to move through the crowd, walking back toward the field.

Then out of nowhere, she felt an arm slip over her shoulder, and her gaze shifted to see Aso grinning at her.

"Hi, Ayano!"

"...Hey.”

"Aw, come on! Don’t be like that." Aso’s voice was playful, his tone teasing as he gave her a little nudge. "We’re friends now, you said so yourself!"

"And there’s no take backs," he added, his grin widening.

Ayano didn’t react to that, but the smallest flicker at the corner of her lips didn’t go unnoticed by him. Aso’s grin only grew bigger, clearly satisfied with the reaction he’d gotten.

"So, what’d you place?" he asked, his curiosity genuine.

"Eighteenth."

"That’s not bad!" Aso said with a nod, though his eyes flickered over her expression. "But…"

He studied her for a moment. "I know you can do better than that. Come on, you barely even broke a sweat."

"I did my best," she said, her voice as deadpan as ever. The lie slipped from her lips effortlessly, though Aso seemed to sense it.

"Hm… okay," he replied slowly, but he wasn’t bothered, just unconvinced. His attention shifted quickly. "Anyway, my race is up next! You’ll cheer me on, won’t you?"

Ayano met his gaze for a moment, her voice flat but steady. "Sure."

…

Ayano made her way to the stands, blending in with the other students gathered to watch the next event.

The energy in the air was palpable, eyes fixed on the track as the competitors lined up for the upcoming sprint.

From her spot, she scanned the runners. Aso stood among them, practically buzzing with excitement. Would she actually cheer for him out loud? Probably not. But in her head? Maybe.

Her gaze shifted. Among the other competitors, stretching with quiet confidence, was Megamo Saikou.

Students stole glances his way, some murmuring amongst themselves, but Megamo remained entirely focused, adjusting his stance, rolling his shoulders back with the kind of self-assurance that only came from relentless discipline.

One thing was clear. He was here to win. Not to prove anything, not for fun—just because that was the expectation. And Megamo Saikou never failed to meet expectations.

The moment the whistle blew, Aso exploded off the starting line.

He was fast—blindingly fast—his body moving with reckless energy as he tore down the track, arms pumping, legs stretching in powerful strides. His start was nothing short of electric, instantly pulling ahead of the others. 

The crowd reacted, a mix of cheers and shouts echoing through the field as Aso’s momentum carried him forward like a gust of wind.

But Megamo was different.

Where Aso sprinted with raw enthusiasm, Megamo moved with precision. He didn’t surge forward. He didn’t need to. His form was flawless, every step calculated, his breathing even, his focus unshaken. 

He kept a steady, unrelenting pace, letting the others burn themselves out while he conserved his energy. To the untrained eye, it almost looked like he was falling behind, like Aso had already secured victory.

Ayano, watching from the stands, could see the difference. Aso was running with everything he had from the start. Megamo was waiting.

Halfway through the race, Aso was still leading, but something shifted. The gap between him and Megamo had started to close—not because Aso was slowing down, but because Megamo was speeding up. 

His acceleration was effortless, seamless, like he had been holding back the entire time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

The crowd noticed. Shouts of surprise rang out as Megamo, calm and composed, inched closer and closer, his long strides eating up the distance. Aso, sensing the shift, gritted his teeth. He wasn’t about to let this turn into an easy win for Megamo.

The finish line was rapidly approaching. Megamo had nearly pulled ahead, his pace unwavering, but Aso refused to accept second place. 

With one final burst of speed, he pushed his body to its limits, throwing every ounce of energy he had left into the last stretch. His breathing was ragged, his muscles screaming, but he didn’t care.

In the final second, Aso surged forward—Megamo did the same.

Their feet hit the ground in perfect unison as they crossed the finish line together.

A stunned silence filled the air for half a second before the referee raised both arms, signaling…

A tie.

The crowd erupted. Some groaned in disbelief, others cheered, and Aso, still catching his breath, let out a breathless laugh.

"Hah—seriously?" He glanced to the side, where Megamo stood, only slightly winded, adjusting his uniform like this had all been routine.

"Man, what a race!" Aso grinned, stretching his arms behind his head. "Guess that means I’m just as fast as the great Megamo Saikou, huh?"

Megamo exhaled through his nose, brushing off the comment. "It was a tie."

"But a tie means we’re equal," Aso shot back, grinning wider. "So, technically, I win too."

Megamo sighed, finally turning to him with a look of pure, measured patience. "That’s not how that works."

From where she stood, Ayano kept watching as Aso laughed, whilst Megamo looked vaguely annoyed.

He wasn’t upset with Aso. He wasn’t even irritated by the tie itself. It was deeper than that.

Megamo Saikou was raised to be first. Trained to meet expectations most people couldn’t fathom. A tie wasn’t just a tie—it was a miscalculation, a flaw in his execution. An unacceptable imperfection.

The slight tension in Megamo’s shoulders. The fraction of a second he’d hesitated after the results were called. No one else seemed to notice the crack in his perfect composure.

No one except Ayano.

Ayano pulled her gaze away from him, who was already being swarmed by half the student body. The moment the race had ended, they had flocked to him—some eager to congratulate him, others desperate to be acknowledged.

She didn’t bother watching any longer. Instead, she turned her attention back to the track, just as Aso jogged up to her, still catching his breath. 

Unlike Megamo, whose composure remained intact, Aso looked thoroughly winded, his hair slightly damp with sweat, his uniform sticking to his back. But his smile hadn’t faded.

“So?” He rested his hands on his hips, tilting his head at her expectantly. “What’d you think? Not bad, huh?”

Ayano stared at him, expression as unreadable as ever. Aso waited, bouncing on the balls of his feet, as if that would speed up her answer.

“…You did well,” she finally said. 

From all her years of trying to act ‘normal’, Ayano wasn’t new to offering compliments that carried no weight—empty, effortless words meant to fulfill expectations. But this time… this time, it wasn’t entirely insincere. He did do well. Objectively.

It was simple. Plain. Barely more than an observation. But the moment the words left her mouth, Aso stiffened.

He blinked at her, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. Then, his cheeks turned pink. He quickly looked away, scratching the back of his head with a sheepish laugh as he cleared his throat. “Well, uh… yeah! Of course!” 

Ayano simply nodded.

She didn’t understand why he was suddenly fidgeting. Or why he wasn’t making eye contact anymore. Or why, for some reason, he kept glancing back at her with that little grin like he was trying to play it cool.

It wasn’t that big of a deal.

And yet, from across the field, through the sea of students still gathered around him, she caught Megamo’s gaze.

Even as people clamoured for his attention, his eyes found hers, unwavering and intent. The space between them stretched, distant yet suffocatingly close.

Then, just as quickly, the moment passed. A student tugged at his sleeve, demanding his attention, and Megamo turned away, slipping effortlessly back into the role expected of him.

Ayano exhaled softly and looked away, as if the glance had meant nothing. Because it hadn’t. Not really.

…

The next event was something Ayano had no interest in—some kind of relay she wouldn't participate in. She wasn’t paying attention. Instead, as students scattered across the field, she took note of something else.

One of the benches was missing.

It wasn’t immediately obvious, but the remaining ones were slightly off, their positioning subtly different from this morning. Someone must have moved them.

She let instinct guide her to a more secluded area just by the edge of the field, where the shade of an old sakura tree stretched across the grass, untouched by the noise of the festival.

The sight made her pause.

If she did nothing, this would be the place. The spot where, come Friday, Osana would stand before Taro, heart on her sleeve, waiting for an answer.

Ayano exhaled sharply, pushing the thought away. Not now. Steadying herself, she rounded the hill that the tree was on.

And there, sure enough, she found it.

Or rather, she found him.

Osoro lay sprawled across the missing bench, one arm draped lazily over his eyes, posture completely at ease. His uniform was as disheveled as ever, buttons half done, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal faint traces of bruises from whatever fight he’d gotten himself into last. 

She stepped closer and broke the silence, “I knew it’d be you.”

Without moving his arm, Osoro let out a low chuckle. “How’d you know? I was so sure this place was isolated enough for me to rest.”

“The benches were positioned awkwardly,” she said simply. “They were different from this morning, so I thought someone must have moved them.”

Finally, he shifted, cracking an eye open to glance at her. A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Hah. You got me," he murmured, stretching his arms behind his head. "Guess I’ll have to find a better hiding spot next time." 

Ayano studied him for a second, then asked, “So, you’re not going to compete in anything?”

It was more of a formality than genuine curiosity. The answer was obvious—he was a delinquent, after all. 

Osoro scoffed, stretching his arms behind his head before slowly sitting up, making room beside him. “That doesn’t matter.” He patted the empty space next to him, his tone casual yet expectant. “Come sit for a bit.”

After a brief pause, Ayano lowered herself onto the bench. The midday sun filtered through the tree branches above, casting flecks of light and shadow across them. The rustling leaves, the distant hum of the festival, the faint scent of cherry blossom. It was almost peaceful. 

Until she saw them.

Across the field, strolling at an easy, unhurried pace, were Osana and Taro.

Her gaze locked onto them, a quiet tension settling in her chest. Even from here, she could tell—Osana was talking, gesturing like she always did, and Taro was listening, his expression neutral but attentive.

It was a reminder. A glimpse into a future that, if left alone, would unfold exactly as it was meant to, according to Info-kun.

And she was here. Sitting beneath the same sakura tree where, in just a few days, Osana would stand before Taro, confessing under its falling petals.

Ayano clenched her fingers slightly. Her thoughts began to descend, dissecting every possibility, every action she could take to—

Something heavy settled against her thighs.

She blinked, glancing down.

Osoro had lowered his head onto her lap, his back flat against the bench like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Her thoughts came to an abrupt halt.

“Osoro,” she said flatly, staring down at him. “You’re heavy.”

“I’m tired, so I’m going to sleep.” 

He said it like a demand, but Ayano barely registered it. Her gaze had already began to drift back across the field, where Osana and Taro were still walking together. Still talking. Still laughing.

“You can’t do it alone?” she asked absently, her attention still elsewhere.

Osoro clicked his tongue.

Yeah. He knew that look.

She had been staring just a little too long, too still, her focus latched onto something far off—something that made her shoulders tense in that barely-there way. He never really knew what exactly was going through her head, but he could guess well enough. And he didn’t like it.

So what else had there been to do but distract her by using her lap as a pillow?

Okay, maybe his logic was flawed, but it was the first thing that came to mind.

… And yet, why was it that he was the one feeling flustered now?

“No, I can’t do it alone,” he muttered gruffly. “You keep watch so no one disturbs my sleep.”

That got her to look at him.

Her expression was blank as always, but he saw the way her eyes flickered—how, just for a second, she was pulled out of whatever spiral she was in.

Good enough.

Osoro scoffed, turning his face away as if to get comfortable. "Tch. Don’t look at me like that," he muttered, eyes shutting. 

Her brows twitched slightly. “You—”

Then she noticed.

The faintest flush dusting his ears. Subtle, but unmistakable.

Huh.

Ayano had just about enough of running today.

But, unfortunately, it was a compulsory event again this time.

She stood at the starting line, arms crossed, the cool breeze grazing her skin. The mixed sprint was next. 

Beside her, some familiar faces lined up—Osano and Kizano among them—along with a few strangers she didn't bother to acknowledge.

She wasn’t here to win, nor did she care to. Her goal was simple and the same as it was during the marathon: blend in, place somewhere in the middle, and move on. She had no reason to stand out. No reason to push herself beyond what was necessary.

The whistle blew.

The students rushed forward in a blur of movement. Ayano followed, her sprint smooth, efficient, but never hurried. She calculated her pace to stay in the middle of the pack, neither lagging nor leading.

Then—her foot caught on something.

It happened too fast.

Her balance wavered. Her body lurched forward.

Her knees hit the track first, then her palms. A sharp impact, not painful but jarring. Dust clung to her hands. The world briefly blurred around her.

The crowd’s voices swelled, reacting to the fall.

Ayano exhaled slowly. Just a trip. Nothing that would stop her. She planted her hands firmly against the ground to push herself up—

A shadow loomed over her. Then another.

“Ayano.” Kizano had reached her first, composed despite the exertion. His purple hair gleamed under the sun, his arms crossed over his chest in what was clearly meant to be a regal stance. His tone was measured, but there was an unmistakable edge behind it. "Are you hurt?"

Before she could answer, another voice cut in.

"Ayano!"

Osano arrived just a second after, skidding to a halt beside her, slightly out of breath. His eyes flashed with concern—though his furrowed brows made it look more like he was scolding her. "What the hell was that?! You tripped!”

She blinked. They were both offering their hands to her.

Her gaze flicked between them. Osano’s was tense, uncertain, like he wasn’t sure why he had even reached out in the first place. Kizano’s was expectant, confident, as if he was already assuming she would accept his help.

Neither of them seemed aware of the way their actions mirrored each other.

Ayano remained still. Slowly, she dusted off her hands, brushed off her knees, and ignored both outstretched hands, standing up on her own.

“I’m fine.” Her voice was flat, unimpressed. She rose to her feet effortlessly, not sparing them another glance before turning back toward the finish line.

The silence between them lasted only a second.

Osano scoffed. "She’s so stubborn." 

Kizano, on the other hand, let out a soft chuckle, tilting his head with an amused smirk. “Ah, of course. Our dear Ayano wouldn’t possibly accept help, would she?” He cast a sideways glance at Osano, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “It must be frustrating for you.”

Osano’s head snapped toward him, his shoulders tensing. He barely knew this guy—Kizano, right? The drama club pretty boy with a superiority complex? Whatever. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Kizano’s smirk widened. “Oh, nothing. I just find it amusing. You rushed over like some noble knight, all concerned and gallant, and yet… there she goes, not even sparing you a glance.” He let out a theatrical sigh. “How tragic.”

Osano scowled, heat rising to his face. “And what about you, huh?! You did the exact same thing!”

“I was simply being courteous,” Kizano replied smoothly, brushing invisible dust off his sleeve. “It’s only natural for someone of my status to lend a hand when needed.”

Osano’s eye twitched. “You don’t have a status!”

Kizano placed a hand over his chest, feigning offense. “I beg to differ. Some of us carry ourselves with a certain grace.”

Osano groaned, running a hand through his hair, his frustration mounting. “Are you even listening to yourself?! You—!”

Neither of them noticed that Ayano was already halfway toward the finish line.

She sighed inwardly, blocking out their voices. She didn’t care to understand whatever ridiculous rivalry was beginning to brew behind her. It didn’t concern her. It shouldn’t concern her.

Ayano exhaled and picked up her pace.

She was going to finish this race. And whatever that was? It wasn’t her problem. 

She slowed down as she crossed the finish line.

…But now thanks to that fall, she was dead last. Well, aside from Kizano and Osano, who were currently still bickering not far behind.

So much for staying average.

…

Ayano made her way back to the stands after the race. 

The bottle of water in her hand felt cold against her skin, offering a brief, welcome moment of relief as she twisted the cap off and tilted it to her lips, taking a long drink, the cool liquid soothing the dryness in her throat.

Leaning against the side of a building, she tried to block out the noise around her—the sounds of cheering, the bustling students, the chatter that always seemed to fill the air. She’d seen enough of it for one day. 

There was a certain kind of quiet satisfaction in withdrawing, in retreating to a space where she could breathe without the weight of expectation bearing down on her.

But as she settled into the stillness, a sensation tugged at her from the edges of her awareness. She knew this feeling. That quiet, prickling sensation along the back of her neck. The unmistakable sense of eyes on her.

It had been there all day, hadn’t it? Lingering just beyond her sight, waiting. 

It wasn’t new. In fact, it had become almost second nature at this point. She had grown accustomed to being hyper-aware of her surroundings, her instincts finely attuned to every shift in the air, every movement that seemed out of place.

Her eyes flicked across the crowd, but nothing stood out. Just students. Loud, energetic, unaware. No one looking at her. Not directly. And yet—

The grip on her wrist came so suddenly, so firmly, that for a moment, she almost reacted. Almost. 

Her body tensed, muscles coiling with the instinct to twist away, to retaliate. But before she could, she was pulled backward, her back colliding against the rough bark of a tree. Her pulse spiked—not in fear, but in irritation. She blinked once, steadying herself. And then she saw him.

Megamo Saikou.

He had been watching her all day. He wasn’t subtle. He didn’t feel the need to be when it came to her. And now, here he was, standing in front of her, too close, eyes sharp and assessing. 

The way he looked at her—it wasn’t curiosity. It wasn’t amusement. It was something else, something that sent a strange weight sinking into her stomach. His grip on her wrist was firm but not painful, controlled in a way that unsettled her more than if he had been reckless.

But she only stared at him, unimpressed. 

He could see it—the way she refused to react. The way she flattened herself into something untouchable. It was almost admirable, the control she had. But it wouldn’t help her now.

“You’ve caused quite the stir today, haven’t you?”

His voice was smooth, calculated. A statement, not a question. He already knew the answer. And yet, she had the audacity to meet his gaze with that same empty expression, that same frustrating calm.

“...I don’t know what you mean,” she replied, voice neutral, empty.

Ayano didn’t react. She simply stared, her expression as blank as ever. What was she supposed to say to that? She didn’t know what he wanted from her. Didn’t care, either. Whatever was bothering him, it had nothing to do with her.

And this was their first interaction, wasn’t it? Well, aside from the constant stares he threw her way from across the room—or no, even when he was right in front of her, his gaze lingering far too long. 

He took a step closer, his eyes narrowing, studying her like a hawk eyeing its prey. “Really?” he murmured, his voice dripping with something close to disdain. “You’re going to play that game?”

Ayano didn’t answer. There was no need. She wasn’t going to rise to his bait.

He continued, his words flowing with deliberate venom. “The fall, the boys fighting over you like you’re some prize… And the way you handled Aso earlier—so charming, isn’t it?” His voice curled around her like smoke, thick with mockery. “You’re not as good at hiding it as you think.”

…Was that what this was about? The way people kept reacting to her? The way they kept seeing things that weren’t there? She was used to being misread, but this?

If that was his concern, it was entirely misplaced. None of it mattered. She didn’t care what people thought of her. She didn’t care how they acted.

But then, just when she thought this conversation couldn’t become any more tedious, he said something that made her fingers tighten around the plastic of her water bottle.

“I know what you are.” 

His voice dropped lower, a whisper that felt like a threat. “I know what kind of person your mother is. What kind of world you’ve been raised in.”

Her breath caught, and for a split second, her composure faltered. 

Her mind screamed at her to stay calm, to keep her walls intact, but his words struck a chord she wasn’t prepared for. 

Her mother. Her world. Her family. 

He had no right to bring that up. No right to dredge up the past she’d worked so hard to bury.

Megamo’s gaze didn’t waver. And he noticed her hesitation. Of course he did. There was a certain satisfaction in his eyes, as if he’d found the crack in her armour and was relishing the sight of it.

“Does it bother you?” His voice softened, but there was no warmth in it—just cool calculation. “Knowing that someone like me can see through all your little games?”

She was silent.

She wasn’t sure why. Normally, she would have had something to say—some empty response, some indifferent dismissal. But right now, she didn’t.

Not because she was afraid.

Because she didn’t know what he wanted from her. Why he knew what he knew.

“I’m not playing any games,” she finally managed, her voice flat, her expression cold, despite the rapid beating of her heart.

Megamo leaned in closer, his eyes gleaming with some unspoken challenge. He let go of her wrist, but his presence didn’t diminish. If anything, it seemed to grow more intense, more oppressive.

“Let me just make this clear,” he said, his voice turning darker. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Aishi.” His gaze flickered to her wrist for a brief, unsettling moment, before he took a step back. 

With one last look—a glance that felt like a warning—he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the quiet space he left behind.

Ayano stood there, frozen for just a moment, her mind racing, but her face betraying nothing. She hadn’t expected this. 

Megamo Saikou was dangerous. In ways she hadn’t fully understood. And now, as his words settled into her thoughts, she realised something crucial—he wasn’t just another student to ignore. He knew more about her than anyone should. 

And that made him a threat.

She exhaled slowly, resetting her thoughts, forcing her body back into the calm detachment she’d perfected over the years. 

With a final glance around, she turned and walked away, her steps steady. If she was going to truly navigate her pacifist route from now on, she would have to deal with whatever came next.

She didn’t know what he wanted, but one thing was clear—she couldn’t stay invisible forever.

Chapter Text

Megamo Saikou—heir to Japan’s most prestigious company, had it all: intelligence, wealth, talent, and the power to shape the future.

Yet one thing always eluded him—patience for potential threats.

Ayano Aishi was no exception.

On the surface, she appeared harmless. No incidents. No suspicious behavior. An average student, at least to the untrained eye. 

But Megamo knew better. He knew the truth of her lineage, the infamy of her mother’s legacy. It was only a matter of time before history repeated itself. It always did.

He knew that history was a cycle. That bloodlines were not so easily severed from their past. That the daughter of that woman was bound to repeat her sins.

The heat of the sports festival continued to bore down on him as he stood near the sidelines, watching the events unfold. Students cheered, athletes sprinted past, and the rhythmic pounding of feet against the track filled the air. 

Yet, his focus remained locked onto one person.

He was watching. Always watching. Because his father had sent him here for a reason.

Last week, his father had finally ordered him to attend Akademi High in person—a decision Megamo initially questioned. He had no need to be here, not when he could oversee things from a distance. But it became clear soon enough. 

For all the influence the Saikou name wielded, there were matters even Ichirou kept obscured. The allowance of Ayano Aishi’s presence at Akademi was one such mystery—one Megamo was expected to unravel.

And he would.

His true mission wasn’t just about representing the Saikou name. It was about her.

For reasons his father refused to explain, Ayano Aishi was to be tolerated—for now. Megamo, however, had no intention of standing idly by. 

If she proved to be the danger he expected, he would handle it himself.

However…

He folded his arms, eyes narrowing as he recalled his observations. 

There was something strange about her. She didn’t act like someone suppressing violent urges. If anything, she blended in too well.

Like that time she simply accepted her punishment in the hallway.

Most students, when falsely accused, would at least protest. But she simply accepted the blame without resistance. That wasn’t normal. It had to have been calculated.

Then there was the matter of her social connections.

He had expected her to fixate on a single person, like her mother had. But so far, no clear pattern emerged. 

At first, he thought it was Aso Rito—she certainly seemed to tolerate him more than most. But then there was that moment earlier, when she tripped during the race. He had seen it clearly: two other boys had rushed to her side without hesitation.

First Osano, then Kizano. What was going on here?

He continued to watch from a distance as Ayano made her way to the stands, settling beside yet another boy. This time, it was the cooking club leader.

Megamo narrowed his eyes. 

Another one?

This wasn’t what he thought it was. This was something else. Something more erratic, more unpredictable.

And Megamo Saikou despised unpredictability.

He exhaled sharply, suppressing the frustration rising in his chest. His father had sent him here with an unspoken expectation—to be his eyes, to uncover whatever truth lay hidden beneath Ayano’s quiet existence.

But the more he observed, the more the pieces refused to fit together. 

If Ayano Aishi was truly as dangerous as her lineage dictated, where was the evidence? Where was the obsession, the violence, the inevitable collapse into madness?

All he saw was a girl who slipped through the cracks of expectation. A girl who was supposed to be a monster but instead sat under the festival sun, surrounded by people who chose to be near her.

That thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

“Megamo! You’re up next for the event,” a familiar voice called, breaking his focus.

Akane Toriyasu, the scarlet-haired student council secretary, stood a few feet away, an easygoing smile on her face.

“Ah—were you watching someone?” she teased, shifting closer. “It looked like you were staring really hard.”

Megamo straightened, brushing invisible dust from his uniform. “I was observing.”

“Observing?” Akane echoed, tilting her head. “Oh, do you mean strategising? I didn’t know you cared about the three-legged race that much.”

He resisted the urge to sigh. “It’s not about the race.”

“Ohh, it’s about someone then?” Akane leaned in conspiratorially. “A certain someone, perhaps?”

Megamo shot her a cool glance. “Hardly.”

Akane hummed. “Hm. If you say so, president.” She glanced at the track. “But really, you should get going. They’re waiting for you.”

Megamo took a breath, dragging his attention away from Ayano. He had spent enough time watching for now. He would gather more information soon—preferably by forcing a reaction out of her himself.

With that in mind, he stepped toward the track, adjusting the sleeves of his uniform. If she was as dangerous as he suspected, he would be the first to find out.

And if she wasn’t?

Then why was his father so interested in her?

…

The stands were quieter than the rest of the festival, offering a brief escape from the bustling events.

Ayano wasn’t particularly tired, but she found herself drawn here anyway, her feet moving before she could think too much about it.

Amao was leaning against the railing, watching the field with an easy, thoughtful expression. Unlike other students who had been competing fiercely all day, he didn’t seem particularly invested in winning—more like he was simply enjoying the atmosphere.

He turned at the sound of her footsteps, his expression brightening. “Oh, hi Ayano! You alright?”

She nodded, settling beside him. “Just taking a break.”

Amao hummed in acknowledgment and handed her half of his sandwich without a second thought.

“Oh, no, I—”

“Yes, you can. Take it.” His voice was warm, reassuring, like he genuinely wanted to share.

Reluctantly, Ayano took the sandwich, biting into it. She paused, surprised by how simple it was yet how full of flavour it tasted. “It’s really good,” she remarked, the taste more vibrant than she expected for something so ordinary.

She was about to ask if he made it, but that was pretty obvious by now.

Amao studied her for a moment, then smiled. “Thanks. You should rest while you can. There’s still a lot going on today… and tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.

Something in his voice shifted, like he was leading into something. She might not have thought anything of it, but then he added, “You know? Valentine’s Day.”

Ayano felt her body tense before she could stop herself.

She had been aware, of course. The subtle change in the atmosphere, the quiet anticipation, the way gazes would linger between students. It was hard not to notice.

But she hadn’t thought about it beyond that—hadn’t considered what it meant for her.

 “I bet the cooking club’s excited,” he mused. “They’ve been talking about it for weeks. They’ve been planning on making a bunch of chocolates—selling them, taste-testing, all that.” He shot her a sideways glance. “Have you ever made chocolates before?”

“No.”

“Hm.” He tapped his chin, considering. “You should try it. It’s kind of fun. And it’d be a good excuse to give chocolates to someone.”

Ayano blinked, caught off guard. “Why would I do that?”

Amao grinned. “Well, isn’t that what people do on Valentine’s Day? Give chocolates to someone they like?”

It was such a simple statement. So obvious. Giving chocolates to the one she likes?

…To Taro?

The thought came suddenly, uninvited, and far too obvious in the way her body betrayed her. A warmth crept up her neck, subtle but unmistakable.

Amao noticed.

She hadn’t reacted verbally, but her usual blank face was… different. There was the faintest trace of colour on her cheeks, the barest shift in her composure. It was subtle—so subtle that most people wouldn’t catch it.

But Amao did.

That expression. 

It felt strangely familiar—like that moment he’d bumped into her at the grocery store. Yet, at the same time, it wasn’t familiar at all. And now, here it was again—different, but just as fleeting.

His lips curved, interest sparking in his eyes. “Oh? That got a reaction.”

“…I don’t know what you mean.”

Ayano glanced at him, her face returning to its usual impassive state, but Amao had already seen it.

And now, he was curious.

He definitely enjoyed watching her enjoy his food, that was a given. But he still found himself wondering—what kind of expressions was Ayano capable of outside of that?

And why, all of a sudden, did he want to see them for himself?

“Come on,” he teased. “You got all weird just now. You wouldn’t happen to have someone on your mind, would you?”

She did.

The thought was startling, enough that she looked away, pressing her lips together as if that would stop the warmth creeping up her neck again.

Amao chuckled, and she hated that he sounded so amused. “Wow. That’s a yes, isn’t it?”

“It’s not,” she said, but her voice lacked its usual steadiness. She wasn’t used to this—being the one caught off guard.

Amao tilted his head, studying her with a knowing smile. “You’re not a great liar, you know that?”

She was. She had spent years perfecting it. So why was it failing her now?

His voice softened.. “So… do you? Have someone you want to give chocolates to?”

“I…” she hesitated, then shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

A quiet hum left him, thoughtful but not prying. He wouldn’t press further. “Well, if it ever does matter, you should do something about it. It’d be a shame if you didn’t.”

She glanced at him, unsure what to make of that. “Why?”

“Because I think you care more than you let on,” he said simply. “And if you want to do something for someone, you should. It doesn’t have to be anything big. Just… something honest.”

Ayano lowered her gaze, the words settling uncomfortably in her chest. Honest. That wasn’t something she was used to.

Amao must have sensed the shift in her mood because he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “Here,” he said, offering it to her. “Give me your number.”

“What for?”

He smiled, easy and sincere. “So you can text me if you need help. Making chocolates. Or anything else.”

There was no teasing in his voice this time, just quiet reassurance. Like he wanted her to know she didn’t have to do it alone.

Ayano hesitated, then took the phone, entering her number before handing it back.

Amao glanced at the screen, his expression softening. “Alright. Now you know who to call if you need anything.”

She didn’t respond, but there was something warm in her chest, something she wasn’t quite sure how to deal with.

And Amao—he just smiled, like he understood.

Still, something about helping Ayano with someone she liked felt... off.

It shouldn’t have.

Helping Ayano should’ve felt normal. She wasn’t the kind of girl people associated with romance, and the idea of her liking someone was unexpected enough to be interesting.

And yet, something about it didn’t sit right with him.

Maybe it was because Ayano had always seemed untouchable, distant in a way that made it hard to imagine her caring about someone like that. 

Maybe it was because he thought he’d be the only one who noticed things about her, the subtle shifts, the almost-expressions, and the thought of someone else seeing them, drawing them out, felt… strange.

Or maybe, though he wasn’t ready to admit it, he just didn’t like the idea of her looking at someone else that way—

When that someone wasn’t him.

It started with just one.

A neatly wrapped box, handed to her with an awkward smile from a customer who mumbled something about not knowing if he’d be able to come tomorrow on Valentine’s Day.

Ayano accepted it with a practiced bow and a soft, “Thank you, Master,” before setting it aside.

Then another came. And another.

Before she knew it, the small stash of chocolates behind the counter had grown into a pile. 

Some were store-bought, others clearly homemade, wrapped with meticulous care. Every customer who placed one in her hands seemed to have the same excuse:

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be working tomorrow.”

“I didn’t want to miss the chance to give you something.”

“You always look after us so well,  Yan-chan!”

She wasn’t entirely sure how it happened. She hadn’t done anything differently—just performed her usual duties with the same bare-minimum polite demeanor.

And yet, by the time her shift ended, she was staring at a large bag, filled to the brim with chocolates from customers.

Ayano adjusted the strap on her shoulder, the weight unexpectedly heavy.

“Oh wow, Ayano-chan, that’s a lot.”

She turned to see Saku-chan peering curiously into the bag. The bubbly maid grinned, arms folded. “Looks like our regulars really like you.”

Ayano blinked. “They were just being polite. It wasn’t… romantic.”

Saku-chan laughed. “Of course not! Valentine’s isn’t just for that, you know. You can give stuff to friends, too.”

Friends.

Ayano hadn’t thought about that. In all her life, Valentine’s Day had only ever meant one thing—matter of fact, it didn’t mean anything at all. And yet…

She looked down at the bag again.

“…You’re right.”

Who needed romance, anyway?

…

Apparently, Ayano did.

She hadn’t planned on making chocolates. Not really. But the moment she got home, her feet carried her straight to the kitchen, moving before she could stop and think too hard about it.

The second she stepped through the front door, before she even finished slipping off her shoes, her feet took her toward the stove. Her hands moved with purpose, but her mind was tangled in uncertainty.

It was just chocolates.

People gave chocolates to friends. To classmates. It was normal. Harmless. Even Saku-chan said so.

And yet, the tight knot in her stomach refused to unravel. Because no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise, this wasn’t just some casual gift.

It would be for him.

For Taro.

Ayano set down the ingredients and took a slow, steady breath. On the way home, she had thought about this—really thought about it. About what Amao said.

If her feelings were real, if she truly cared about him—not as an obsession, not as a goal, but as him—then what was so wrong with pursuing him? Wasn’t that what normal girls did? They liked someone, they confessed, and if things didn’t work out, they moved on.

It didn’t have to be violent. It didn’t have to be messy. 

She could be that kind of girl… couldn’t she?

But that was the problem. Could she? 

More importantly… should she?

Her fingers hovered over the chocolate, hesitating.

Taro didn’t know her like that.

They had barely spoken. She was just another underclassman to him, another face in the crowd. She had no reason to be giving him chocolates—not the kind that meant something, anyway.

Wouldn’t it be weird? Out of place?

If she were a normal girl, she would have spent time with him first, would have made memories with him before deciding something like this. But she hadn’t. Not yet.

Not like Osana.

Her fingers tightened around the handle of the saucepan.

Then—

Whoosh.

A flash of orange. A sharp, acrid scent.

Ayano barely had time to react before flames leaped from the pan. She had been so lost in thought, she hadn’t even noticed the chocolate burning.

“Shit—!”

She yanked the pan off the burner and slammed it onto the counter. The fire sputtered out, leaving behind only the bitter stench of burnt sugar.

For a long moment, she just stared at the mess.

She wasn’t bad at cooking. She wasn’t. She’d done this before.

So why—why was this so difficult?

Maybe because it wasn’t about the chocolates. It was about what they meant.

Her hands curled into fists. With a sigh, she pulled out her phone, scrolled through her contacts, and tapped on a name.

“Amao, help. I almost burned the house down.”

“???”

“I was making chocolates.”

“Ah.”

“What do I do?”

“Well, what happened?”

“I wasn’t paying attention, and the chocolate burned.”

“What kind of chocolate were you using?”

“…Normal chocolate?”

“Dark, milk, white?”

“Dark.”

“Alright, dark chocolate burns easily. You have to melt it slowly over low heat or use a double boiler.”

“I don’t have a double boiler.”

“You can fake one. Just put a heatproof bowl over a pot with a little simmering water. The steam will melt the chocolate gently.”

“That sounds bothersome.”

“Or you could microwave it in short bursts, stirring in between. But don’t rush it. Oh, and if it seizes up, turns grainy or thick, add a little warm milk or butter. Not water. Water will ruin it.”

“Noted.”

“Also, don’t forget to stir.”

”Sure.”

”Constantly.”

“I get it.”

“Okay, okay. Good luck, Ayano!”

“Thank you.”

She set her phone down, exhaling slowly.

This was stupid. It was just chocolate.

And yet, as she reached for a clean pan, she couldn’t ignore the way her pulse quickened in her chest.

The air at Akademi buzzed with a sickeningly sweet energy.

Pink and red decorated the halls—heart-shaped stickers on lockers, construction paper garlands draped across bulletin boards, and an overwhelming scent of chocolate that clung to the air. Every corner of the school was infected with Valentine’s Day fever.

Students giggled and whispered, their voices carrying an extra layer of excitement. Couples exchanged gifts under stairwells, some bashfully, others dramatically. Girls presented chocolates with nervous smiles, boys accepted them with practiced nonchalance, and love confessions unfolded in hushed tones.

Ayano took it all in with mild disinterest as she stepped inside the school building. But as she reached her shoe locker, she paused.

A soft thunk from beside her caught her attention.

She turned just in time to see an avalanche of chocolates and letters fall from a locker not far from hers.

Megamo’s.

He barely reacted. Without hesitation, he crouched down, scooped up the pile of gifts in both arms, and unceremoniously dumped them all into the nearest trash bin.

No hesitation. No second thought. Just straight into the garbage.

Some girls nearby gasped, covering their mouths in shock. Others sighed as if they had expected it.

Megamo dusted off his hands, muttered something under his breath, and shut his locker.

Ayano lingered for a moment, watching the scene with detached curiosity. But in the end, she had no particular opinion on it. It wasn’t her concern.

She picked up her indoor shoes and made her way inside the building.

Before the first bell rang, Ayano found herself wandering through the hallways, her school bag heavier than usual.

Not because of textbooks.

But because of the sheer amount of chocolate stuffed inside. It was filled to the brim with the gifts she received yesterday at the cafe.

Clearly, she wouldn’t be able to finish them all. But she wasn’t going to throw them away, either. That felt wasteful. So, she’d do the next most logical thing.

Give them away.

She spotted Kokona and Saki near the vending machines, chatting while rummaging through their wallets for change. Without a word, she approached and placed two neatly wrapped chocolates on the ledge beside them.

Kokona blinked. “Oh?”

“Take them.” Ayano adjusted the strap of her bag. “I have too many.”

Saki gasped dramatically. “Ooh, are these from your secret admirer?”

“No.”

“Oh. Boring. But thank you!”

Kokona picked up her chocolate with a grateful smile. “Thanks, Ayano! That’s really sweet of you.”

Ayano just nodded before walking off.

As she passed through the hallways, she handed out a few more—one to a girl from her class, another to a random first-year who looked stressed about homework. 

Eventually, she spotted Oko rummaging through his own bag, expression focused.

She paused.

Why not?

“Here.”

Oko looked up just as she held out a chocolate. He blinked. “Huh?”

“I have too many,” she explained. “Take one.”

For some reason, his face turned bright red.

“O-Oh. Uh… Thanks.” He hesitated before taking it, staring at the small box like it contained something dangerous. His fingers curled around it carefully.

“…Are you okay?” Ayano asked.

Oko cleared his throat into his fist, looking anywhere but at her. “Y-Yeah. Just—uh—wasn’t expecting it…”

Ayano tilted her head but didn’t press further. If anything, she was just glad to be rid of another chocolate.

She still had plenty more to go.

The morning bell finally rang, its chime reverberating through the classroom as students shuffled into their seats. 

Ayano entered last. Her gaze swept over the room, and her eyes immediately landed on Mido-sensei’s desk.

It was a spectacle, to say the least. 

The entire surface of his desk was covered in an absurdly large amount of chocolates and letters. Pink envelopes, some with glittery hearts, were scattered haphazardly around his coffee mug, while various chocolate boxes were piled high—some open, some still sealed.

Looks like someone’s popular.

The sight was enough to make Ayano cringe. Mido-sensei had them out, shamelessly displaying his loot to the entire class, clearly basking in the attention.

Ayano set her bag down with a thud, the weight of it startling her, even though she knew it was still stuffed to the brim with chocolates. The bag's opening gaped slightly, as if threatening to spill the contents at any moment.

"Where the hell did you get so many?"

Osano’s voice broke through her thoughts, sharp and accusing. She glanced up to find him sitting across from her, his skeptical gaze zeroing in on the bulging bag she had just dropped onto the desk. 

Ayano blinked at him, her face remaining stoic as always. She didn’t say a word, simply reaching into the bag and pulling out one of the many boxes of chocolates. With her usual indifference, she silently held it out to him.

Osano’s eyes flicked from the chocolates to her face, his expression one of disbelief. "What? You’re giving me one?"

Ayano nodded slightly, offering the smallest of gestures to confirm her action. 

He sighed gruffly, rolling his eyes before muttering, "Well, fine, I guess I’ll take it."

With that, he snatched the box from her hand, his face flushing a little despite his best efforts to appear nonchalant. 

He quickly turned his gaze away, as if pretending it wasn’t a big deal, but Ayano could tell he was flustered by the unexpected gesture. 

…

It was finally time.

The lunch bell had rung, and the moment she had been waiting for all morning had arrived.

Ayano moved with purpose, weaving through the crowd of students spilling into the courtyard, her fingers curled loosely around the small box of homemade chocolates tucked inside her palm. 

It was the perfect moment—she had ensured it. A rare window where no one would be in the way. No Osana. No Raibaru.

Her heart did not race. Her breathing remained steady. And yet, her feet slowed as the fountain came into view.

Taro was there, just as she expected. Seated at the edge of the basin, the afternoon light catching the soft black of his hair. Alone. 

She paused.

…Did she really think this would change anything?

She knew the answer before she even finished the thought.

No, it wouldn’t. Not in the way that mattered. But still…

Still.

She had come this far.

Ayano stepped forward—

A flicker of movement.

Her body stilled.

Osana.

That unmistakable orange hair. That familiar, bounding energy.

Ayano's fingers clenched around the chocolates, the edges of the box pressing into her skin as she watched Osana walk right up to him—bold, unhesitating, stepping right into the place Ayano was meant to be.

The scene unfolded right in front of her so fast, but it all felt distant. As if she was simply an observer standing miles away. And for a moment, she almost wished she wasn’t there at all.

Osana fidgeting, shifting her weight, the nervous set of her shoulders betraying her forced confidence. The box of chocolates, wrapped in soft pink cloth in her hands. The way she shoved it toward him, voice stumbling out in both frustration and embarrassment.

Ayano couldn’t stand it.

“H-Here,” Osana stammered.

Taro looked up, surprised. “Huh?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself, dummy! Just take it already!”

A sharp edge pressed into Ayano’s palm. When had she tightened her grip?

Taro chuckled, and there was something so warm, so effortless about it that Ayano suddenly hated the sound.

“You made this yourself?”

“…Yeah,” Osana muttered, voice quieter. “Not like I wanted to, but I had extra ingredients, and you’d probably forget to buy yourself anything, so… yeah.”

Taro smiled at her. “Thanks, Osana. I’ll be sure to enjoy them.”

A moment stretched between them—brief, but tangible.

Osana turned away first, face pink, grumbling something about him wasting her time before stomping off.

Ayano remained still.

The box in her hand felt heavier than before.

She had timed it perfectly. Chosen the exact moment when he would be alone, when there would be no distractions, no interruptions. And yet—

Osana still reached him first.

The scene replayed in her head like a scratched record, over and over, burning itself into her mind, into her ribs, into her grip where the chocolates threatened to crumble under her fingers.

Again, she was just a spectator.

What was she even thinking? That he would have accepted hers just as easily? That it would have meant something? She had seen this outcome from the start, hadn’t she? Known it in the marrow of her bones.

Her hand loosened.

She turned on her heel and walked away.

Toward the back of the school.

Right now, she didn’t want to be anywhere else. She sank onto a bench, the weight of the untouched chocolates still in her hands, heavier than ever.

Across the yard, by the incinerator, the group of delinquents loitered. Loud voices, rough laughter, the occasional metallic clang. Osoro was among them.

He wasn’t paying attention to the conversation, though. His gaze flickered toward the bench, catching sight of her. Ayano, sitting there alone, unmoving.

His gang was mid-sentence when he abruptly stepped away.

“Oi, where you going?” one of them called.

He didn’t answer. Just headed straight for her, shoulders loose, hands stuffed in his pockets. He dropped onto the bench beside her, glancing at her face.

“You look like a kicked puppy.”

Ayano didn’t respond right away. Then, on a whim, she shoved the chocolates into his hands. “Here.”

Osoro blinked, looking down at the box, then back at her. An eyebrow lifted. Still, he didn’t question it. Just pulled the wrapping off, popped a piece into his mouth, and chewed.

Immediately, he grimaced. “Damn. This tastes like shit.”

Ayano’s expression remained deadpan, but her eyes narrowed slightly. “Then don’t eat it,” she muttered, the faintest scowl tugging at her lips.

He huffed a short laugh, amused. There was something about her grumbling that made him smile more than he expected. “No, no. I want it.”

Not far from them, his gang stopped their chatter entirely. They watched the interaction unfold like it was some kind of live drama, eyes wide in disbelief.

One of them leaned forward slightly, the rest following. “Hey, what are they saying? What did she just give him?”

“Did she just—?”

“No way. Did he just... smile?"

“Shut up, I can’t hear—”

“I swear if you don’t stop breathing in my ear—”

Ayano stood abruptly, causing all of them to freeze in place like a pack of startled deer. Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked away.

The moment she was out of sight, the gang swarmed Osoro.

“What the hell was that?”

“Did she just give you Valentine’s chocolate?”

“She totally did, didn’t she?!”

Osoro chewed another piece, still looking unimpressed. “Tastes like crap.” And yet, he kept eating.

“That’s not the point!”

One of them groaned, running a hand down his face. “Man, of all people, it had to be you?”

The delinquents never got any gifts from girls on Valentine’s Day. Never.

And for the leader, of all of them, to be the first?

“No, no. Of all people, it had to be her?!” Umeji added. Clearly, he was still holding a grudge against her for whatever reason.

Another grabbed Osoro by the shoulders, shaking him. “You’re the chosen one, boss!”

Osoro rolled his eyes, shoving the rest of the chocolates into his bag. Whatever. Let them think whatever they want. It’s not like he was gonna correct them.

And even if it wasn’t meant just for him… it was still the first time he’d ever received chocolate on Valentine’s Day.

...

On her way back into the school building, Ayano plucked one of the homemade chocolates from an extra stash still in her bag.

She popped it into her mouth.

Immediately, her steps slowed.

…It really did taste terrible.

The bitterness clung to her tongue, an odd mix of too much cocoa and not enough sugar, with a texture that was somehow both dry and slightly grainy. A disaster from start to finish.

Good thing she hadn’t ended up giving these to Taro.

She should have taste-tested them beforehand, shouldn’t she? An oversight on her part. She had been so preoccupied with timing, with preparation, with making sure everything went perfectly… and yet, something as simple as taste testing the actual chocolate had slipped her mind.

She swallowed it down with a small, muted grimace, dusting her fingers off as she turned down the next hall.

Somehow, her feet carried her toward the Cooking Club.

Why was she even here? She didn’t know. She had no real reason. Maybe it was just some last-ditch effort to fix her failure of a gift, or maybe—

“Oh! Ayano!”

Amao’s warm, lilting voice pulled her from her thoughts. He stood near one of the countertops, an apron tied neatly around his waist, a bowl in his hands. “What a surprise! Didn’t expect to see you here.” His head tilted slightly, bright mint eyes brimming with curiosity. 

He flashed a good-natured grin before pausing, gaze flickering down to her hands. “Ooh, what’s that?”

She hesitated for only a moment before holding out one of the extra chocolates she had made.

Amao took it without question, inspecting it with a fascinated sort of amusement before placing it into his mouth.

A brief pause.

Then, he chewed, his expression shifting into quiet contemplation. “Oh. Hm.”

She waited, watching him closely. Any second now, the disgust would set in.

It was awful, wasn’t it?

“…Not bad, actually.”

Her head tilted slightly. What?

He swallowed, then broke into an easy smile. “No, no! It’s nice! I can tell you put a lot of effort into it.”

“You’re just saying that,” she said flatly.

Amao laughed. “Okay, well, maybe there are a few things you could tweak. Like, did you use too much cocoa? And maybe not enough sugar? And the texture—ah, that was probably from overmixing, huh?” 

He tapped a finger against his chin in thought, then beamed at her. “But honestly? For a first try? Not bad at all!”

He actually sounded… encouraging.

Before she could dwell on that, a small group of girls entered the room, immediately lighting up when they spotted Amao.

“Amao-kun! We made something for you!”

“Oh, for me? Really?” Amao turned to them, his usual easy-going charm in full effect.

One of the girls giggled as she handed him a small wrapped box. “We worked really hard on them! I hope you like it.”

“Oh wow, thanks! I’ll be sure to enjoy them.” He accepted the gifts graciously, flashing them a bright, genuine smile.

Ayano remained silent. She wasn’t sure why she lingered.

She watched the exchange in silence, fingers idly resting against the edge of the counter.

Of course, someone like Amao—kind, charming, effortlessly warm—was bound to be popular.

The way they flocked to him, all eager smiles and hopeful eyes, it wasn’t surprising in the slightest. And the way he received them? Just as natural. Gracious, unassuming, completely unaware of the way their faces lit up under his attention.

Eventually, she turned to leave.

“Ah, wait a sec!”

She stopped, turning to Amao.

He dug into his pocket, pulling out a small, neatly wrapped chocolate bar and held it out to her. “Here, for you.”

She stared at it. “Is this what the cooking club made?”

“Hm?” He tilted his head before shaking it with a soft chuckle. “No, I made it for you.”

Her fingers curled around the chocolate automatically.

For her?

She wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

“…Thanks.” 

She left before she could think too hard about it.

The bell was going to ring soon.

Ayano started making her way back to class, weaving through the lingering clusters of students finishing their lunches, passing the clubs still gathered outside, the scattered conversations drifting through the air, the occasional bursts of laughter.

Then the quieter parts of the school—hallways emptied out, only the distant shuffle of footsteps echoing in the background. Past the neat rows of shoe lockers.

She almost didn’t notice it.

Her own locker.

She stopped.

The lockers should be empty at this time. Nothing but shoes and dust. And yet—something was poking out of hers.

She stepped closer, fingers brushing the edge of her locker door.

Inside sat an unmarked box of chocolates.

No note. No name. Just chocolates, sitting there, waiting.

She stared at them for a long moment.

Then, slowly, she glanced around. The hallway was empty.

She hesitated.

Who left them?

Chapter Text

Ayano stood motionless before her shoe locker, eyes locked on the small box of chocolates nestled inside. Her fingers hesitated just above it, mind racing.

It could be harmless… right?

Maybe a friendly gesture. Any student could’ve left them—repaying her for the chocolates she gave them earlier this morning. That made sense.

But it didn’t explain the unease twisting in her gut. No note. No label. Nothing to suggest who it came from.

Just the chocolates.

Her instincts prickled beneath her skin—and if there was one thing Ayano Aishi had learned to trust, it was that feeling. That subtle sense that something wasn’t quite right.

So… who?

She slowly reached in, fingers brushing the edge of the box like it might snap shut on her. She pulled it out and examined it closely—no prints, no tampering she could see. Still, she cracked it open with caution.

Inside… just chocolates. Neat, untouched, and completely unassuming in their tray. Dark shell, smooth surface, no visible irregularities.

She frowned, dropped the lid back on, and shoved the box into her bag.

Suspiciously perfect.

She decided she’d inspect it more thoroughly later, at home, where she had more tools.

As she walked the halls back to class, her eyes scanned the students.

Kokona, Saki—they wouldn’t go out of their way to hide something like this. If it were them, they’d be obvious about it. Giggly. Dramatic. There’d be glitter or a card or at least a sticker.

So then—what? A secret admirer?

…The idea was absurd, the thought dissipating just as quickly as it came. Who would admire her?

Ayano didn’t draw that kind of attention, did she? Didn’t want to. She made sure of it.

But if it wasn’t a friend… the possibilities narrowed, turned darker.

Info-kun?

He’d done things like this before. Testing her. Watching her reactions like she was a lab rat. Maybe he was trying to push her toward Osana again.

Or worse…

Her mind slid coldly to the only name that could make her stomach knot besides Taro. And this individual happened to share a last name with him, too.

Nemesis. Hanako.

He didn’t even go to Akademi. But if anyone could slip a box of chocolates into her locker unnoticed, it was him. If he wanted her guard down, this was a clever way to do it.

A false sense of security. Perhaps that was what it was meant to do.

But if anything, it had the complete opposite effect. Ayano didn’t do security.

Her fingers twitched at the memory of their last encounter.

Now, no way in hell was she eating them. For all she knew, they were laced with poison, tracking devices, or worse. But she’d keep them—evidence was evidence, after all.

As she rounded a corner and passed by the martial arts club, her gaze lingered.

She’d have to join. Soon. She’d been putting it off, but with Nemesis still out there… self-defense wasn’t optional.

Her gaze flicked toward the benches as she passed. A few members sat outside, finishing their lunch. She recognised the president immediately, seated among them.

She’d meant to talk to him. Soon. But not now. Later. When the halls were quiet and fewer eyes were watching.

Besides, he was eating.

She turned away, heading back to class.

Behind her, Budo shifted slightly, the quiet hum of the afternoon brushing against his ears as he reached into his bag. The others were chatting around him, voices blending into soft background noise.

He pulled out a wrinkled little packet—a White Rabbit candy.

Peeling one open, he popped it into his mouth, letting the creamy sugar coat dissolve on his tongue. Comforting. Sweet in a familiar way. The kind of taste that made memories ache.

The club member next to him shot a curious glance.

“…You want one?” Budo asked, casually offering one.

The guy chuckled. “Nah. Just caught me off guard. Haven’t seen those since I was, like, six?”

“Yeah?” Budo smiled, a quiet laugh escaping him. “They’re my favourite. I always carry a few in my bag.”

“That’s… weirdly specific, man.”

“Maybe.” He shrugged, voice quieter this time. But it was specific for a reason.

His hand slipped briefly into the inner pocket of his bag, brushing against something soft. Folded cloth, familiar in weight and shape. The handkerchief. 

He still had it.

He didn’t explain. But the memory clung to him. That quiet, overcast afternoon, years ago. Tears he hadn’t wanted anyone to see. And a girl with a blank face and soft hands offering him candy like it was the most normal thing in the world.

That moment had never left him.

Some things don’t.

… 

Ayano stepped into the classroom, her expression unreadable. Her eyes, however, were sharp—tracking every movement, every glance, every whisper. She took her seat near the back, setting her bag down quietly, but her focus wasn’t on the class.

It was on everyone else.

Calculating. Deducing the options. Who would give her chocolates?

Midori? Too loud. Too obvious. She wouldn’t even bother hiding a gift like that.

That left… Osano?

Her eyes slid to him. He was proud, sharp-tongued, always brushing off compliments like they burned his ego.

She’d like to think she’s come to know him pretty well. He was too proud to accept a gift. Too proud not to repay it.

She glanced at him from her seat, her voice flat.

“Did you finish your half of the first draft?” she asked.

He didn’t look up right away, flipping through his notes with one hand.

“Obviously,” he muttered, then looked up, eyes sharp. “Why? You think I wouldn’t?”

Then, it happened.

His eyes drifted to her bag, just for a second, and then snapped away like nothing happened. Barely a breath. But it was enough.

Ayano saw it.

Her expression didn’t change, but her mind sharpened. He had looked at her bag. 

Guilty. Maybe.

Curious. Probably.

Stupid enough to think she didn’t notice? Definitely.

It wouldn’t be unlike him to pay her back for the chocolate’s from this morning and pretend he hadn’t. He was prideful like that. But would he really go to the trouble of staying anonymous?

…Yeah, he would.

Still, it felt like a stretch.

She kept him on the list of suspects. But was she overthinking it?

Soon enough, the lesson began, Mido-sensei going on about historical power shifts that didn’t matter. His voice was just white noise at this point.

Ayano stared ahead, eyes half-lidded, but her mind wasn’t still. It was rewinding. Frame by frame. The box of chocolates. The lack of clues. The weight in her gut.

Then—

Vrrt.

A soft vibration pulsed through her bag.

Without shifting her posture, she smoothly lowered a hand to the zipper, carefully easing her phone out and angling it beneath the desk, outside of Mido-sensei’s field of vision.

One new message. 

From Info-kun.

“Did you get my gift?”

Her blood ran cold.

So it was him? That smug little—

No. She stopped herself.

Info-kun knew things. That was his whole deal, selling information. He always knew. Who was crushing on who. Who cheated on the last exam. Who was lying about going home early.

Info-kun always played games. Always watching, listening, pulling strings. He could easily know about the chocolates without having anything to do with them.

Maybe he was testing her. Jumping to conclusions right now would be a mistake.

She considered responding. Confronting him. Demanding answers.

But she didn’t. Not yet.

Instead, she turned the phone off and slipped it silently back into her bag.

Her eyes returned to the board, but she wasn’t paying attention. Not really.

…

With the final bell and cleaning duty finished, Ayano finally made her way toward the martial arts club.

As she approached the clubroom, Shiromi, the white-haired student council treasurer, passed by, slowing just enough to catch sight of her slipping inside. Her eyes flicked to Ayano’s retreating back.

Martial arts club?

Shiromi’s brows drew together, the edge of suspicion hardening her gaze. She watched the door close behind Ayano, then turned on her heel with precision.

The president was definitely going to hear about this.

Meanwhile, the scent of sweat, mats, and discipline hit Ayano as soon as she stepped inside. Students were practicing throws and strikes in pairs, their movements focused and fast. She scanned the space.

The leader stood by the side, arms crossed, overseeing the activities. He looked up the moment she entered.

“Oh?” he said, his smile easy. “What brings you here?”

Ayano stepped closer, expression unreadable.

“I want to join,” she said.

His brows rose. “Just like that?”

She nodded.

He chuckled. “You don’t waste words, huh?” He offered his hand. “Budo Masuta.”

“Ayano Aishi,” she replied, shaking it once.

His hand was warm, steady. Something flickered behind his eyes—curiosity, maybe. Recognition?

“You seem familiar,” he said, more directly this time. “Have we met before?”

“Maybe,” she said, not offering more.

He blinked, as if trying to draw the memory out of fog. And then, a ghost of something—realisation?—passed through his features. 

She was… the girl he bumped into before, by the shoe lockers. The sudden collision. The girl with steady eyes and a too-familiar silence.

Budo didn’t push it. Instead, he gave a small laugh, brushing the moment off. “Guess I meet a lot of people between classes and club stuff.”

“Guess so,” Ayano echoed.

He cleared his throat. “Anyway. If you’re serious, let’s get you started. Think you can handle a little sparring?”

“Yes.”

But as Budo led her deeper into the club, he glanced over his shoulder once more. That feeling nagged at him again. Like deja vu laced with a strange tension.

Where had he really seen her before?

“...Alright then,” he said. “Let’s see what you’ve got. Juku!”

A second-year boy with light brown hair looked up from the side.

“You’re up,” Budo called. 

The mat was cleared, students forming a loose circle around the two. Juku bounced on the balls of his feet, cracking his neck. 

He sized Ayano up.

Small frame. Blank expression. Looked like a stiff breeze could knock her over.

“No offense,” he said with a grin, “but you sure you’re at the right club?”

Ayano didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Just stared.

Juku hesitated, her silence making his confidence falter for a second.

“Okay then…” he muttered, raising his fists.

Budo stepped to the side. “Begin!”

Juku lunged.

Ayano moved like water. Silent, fluid. She ducked low, spinning past his first punch, then struck his side with a sharp open palm. He staggered.

Recovering quickly, Juku came in again. Faster this time. More aggressive.

She blocked his next blow, twisted her body, and with a sudden sweep of her leg, knocked him off his feet. He hit the mat with a heavy thud.

Silence.

Then a soft groan from Juku as he sat up, rubbing his back.

“Okay,” he said breathlessly. “Yeah. She’s in.” He turned to Ayano, his earlier assumptions practically crumbling to dust. “You’re fast. Like, scary fast. Remind me not to piss you off.”

Budo stepped forward, offering Ayano a nod of approval.

“That was impressive,” he said. “Quick reflexes. You’ve got sharp instincts. Really sharp.”

He crossed his arms, looking her over like a puzzle.

“But…” he stepped closer, tone more serious, “you fight more like someone who’s had to survive, not someone who’s been trained.”

She didn’t respond. Just stared at him, waiting. 

Of course he saw it. Of course. Too raw. Too reactive. Not polished enough. She should’ve held back more. Should’ve masked it better. But instinct was faster than thought, and she’d always been better at staying alive than looking clean.

Her mother had trained her—if that’s what it could be called. Not in stances or forms or honorific belts. No, her mother taught her how to end a fight before it started. How to read a room. How to make a knife disappear into her hand like it had always belonged there. The lessons had been hard, brutal sometimes. But to Ryoba—necessary. Always necessary.

He was right. She didn’t move like a student. She moved like someone who had no other option.

“…Which is perfect.” He smiled again—this one softer, more genuine. “Because that’s exactly what I teach here. Control. Technique. Turning instinct into mastery.”

He extended a hand.

“Welcome to the martial arts club, Ayano.”

She stared at it for a moment, then shook it once—firmly.

…

Later into club activities, once Ayano had been paired with a senior for basic drills, Budo stepped away from the mat once more, arms crossed loosely as he leaned against the wall. His gaze drifted back to her again.

She moved with an odd kind of precision. Not raw talent, not polished skill—but something in between. Deliberate. Focused. Careful.

Too careful.

He furrowed his brow, watching the way she adjusted her stance after each move, like she was memorising every correction and committing it to muscle.

Then it hit him—unexpected and strange. Not her stance. Not her technique.

Her expression.

That calm, almost blank look. Unbothered. Like nothing could touch her.

Like a memory from long ago.

He blinked.

Was he imagining it?

After club activities and her part-time shift at the cafe, Ayano finally returned home. The house was silent, as it always was. 

She retreated to her room, shut the door, and sank cross-legged onto the floor, the only light a soft blue glow from the blacklight pen in her hand. 

The curtains were drawn tight, her door closed. On the floor before her sat the small box of chocolates, untouched since she’d retrieved it from her locker.

She slid on a pair of thin latex gloves. No fingerprints. No contamination. Her expression was calm, but inside, her mind buzzed.

She’d learned this from her mother.

Ryoba Aishi had always kept tools like this around the house, and not for practical use. Ayano remembered being a child, sneaking into the storage closet and finding the locked metal case labeled “Observation.” Inside were gloves, plastic bags, a fingerprinting kit, even a portable UV light.

At the time, she’d thought her mother was just strange. Paranoid, maybe. But she understood now.

Click.

The blacklight hummed to life. Slowly, she swept it over the surface of the box. At first, nothing. Just the soft shine of the cardboard catching the faint ultraviolet. But then, on the underside of the lid—a smear. Barely there.

She leaned in. It wasn’t grease or chocolate. It had the delicate pattern of ridges—partial, but unmistakable.

A fingerprint.

She stared at it, committing the shape to memory. She didn’t have the equipment to run it through a database, but she’d preserve it. A small strip of adhesive tape pressed carefully against the smear, then sealed in a bag with a practiced motion.

Next, she opened the box. The chocolates remained pristine, glossy, too perfect. Ayano plucked one out with tweezers and turned it over. She examined the wrapper beneath the blacklight, and her brow furrowed.

A tiny mark, barely the size of a needlepoint, was tucked into the corner seam of the foil.

She peeled it back carefully. There, imprinted in micro-text almost invisible to the naked eye, was a label.

Imported.

Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t recognise the brand. It wasn’t one of the typical convenience store types, and it definitely wasn’t something her classmates would get at the mall.

She spun her laptop around, already searching. It didn’t take long.

The brand was a luxury chocolatier. Belgian-based. Sold almost exclusively in Europe, with only a few extremely high-end shops in Tokyo carrying limited batches on order. No online marketplace offered that specific series.

Ayano leaned back, expression unreadable, but inside her chest, something stirred.

Whoever left this didn’t just grab something from a local store. They knew exactly what they were doing.

She brought the wrapper close again, lifting it to her nose. A faint scent lingered. Not chocolate. Not perfume. Sharp, sterile.

Chemical.

Her blood ran cold.

Chloroform? No, not quite. Something close. But she recognised the scent.

Ayano rose to her feet, calm and methodical, already sealing the chocolate in a new bag for later analysis.

It wasn't from Kokona. It wasn't from Osano. It wasn’t even Nemesis or Info-kun.

She was sure of it now.

Megamo.

He was the only individual in the entire school who would be able to access such a high-end brand.

But the question that tangled around her like wire was… why?

She'd initially thought Megamo was just a nuisance. Another golden boy who liked to act above it all. But after that day he confronted her—that day he said he knew ‘what she was’.

She hadn’t flinched at the time. Hadn’t let him see the way her pulse stuttered. But now… now it felt like a countdown had started. How much did he really know?

And more importantly—what did he want with her?

He hadn't probed her. He hadn’t exposed anything. Not yet. That should’ve been a relief. But instead, it felt worse.

Because it meant he was waiting. Watching.

But the chocolates… Just what did they mean? Clearly, he expected her to follow the nature of her bloodline. He could’ve been testing her—her reaction, her curiosity, how far she might go to track the origin. He was smart, and most of all, he thought she was dangerous. This could have been his way of saying “I see you.” 

The sterile chemical scent, the precision—maybe it was a quiet threat, saying, “I know who you are, and I could expose you if I wanted to.” Even the single fingerprint may be deliberate. A subtle power move.

Ayano's chest tightened.

She stared at her gloved hands, the way they moved with clinical precision, and for a second, she hated how natural it felt.

How easy it was to slip into this pattern.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She wasn’t supposed to be like her.

That thought snagged something raw inside her.

She had promised herself—sworn—that she wouldn’t become like her mother. That she would be different.

Ryoba Aishi lived her life in the shadows. Stalking. Eliminating. Obsessing.

But Ayano…

She had a plan. A cleaner way. No blood. No body count. Just control.

So why did it feel like she was already failing? Like every step she took dragged her closer to a version of herself she didn’t want to meet?

She sat down again, slowly. Her hands clenched in her lap.

Megamo.

Nemesis.

Info-kun.

Everyone was circling.

And… Friday was coming fast.

She clenched her teeth, biting down on the sick feeling in her gut.

The truth was, it wasn’t Nemesis that scared her.

It wasn’t Megamo or even her own unraveling sanity.

It was the thought of Osana, standing in front of Taro under the cherry tree, her hands shaking, her cheeks glowing red.

Taro smiling back. Accepting.

That was the true threat.

Ayano exhaled sharply and pulled her phone close. It buzzed. A new message.

She didn’t need to check the screen to know who it was. She had a gut feeling.

She picked up the device with a sense of dread already blooming in her stomach.

Of course. Info-kun.

“Three days. Time’s ticking.”

That was it. Again, no greeting, no context. Just pressure.

Ayano stared at the screen for a long moment, her expression blank. She hated that he did this. Dropping cryptic messages like she was one of his pawns. Like she needed reminding.

She hadn’t forgotten. She never forgot.

And now, with both Megamo and Nemesis creeping into the background of her life like a phantom in the mirror, everything felt like it was tightening around her.

One wrong move, and everything could fall apart.

But what could she really do?

Even with a genuine threat like Nemesis—a killer lurking somewhere in the shadows—Ayano couldn’t focus. 

The thought of danger didn’t make her stomach twist half as much as the image of the confession playing on loop in her mind.

Taro was everything to her.

The only one who could make her feel anything at all. In a world that was otherwise grey, empty, silent—he was the one vivid colour, the one sound that broke through the static.

For a while now, she had lied to herself. Told herself she could sit quietly, watch from a distance, let him live his life without ever interfering. That just seeing him would be enough.

But was it?

Could she really live a quiet life, knowing that the only spark she'd ever felt was slipping further and further away from her?

Were these really the only choices she was left with? To either be selfish, like her mother had... or so selfless it hollowed her out until there was nothing left? So selfless it bordered on self-destruction?

Either way, it felt like she was losing.

And she didn’t know how much longer she could endure it.

She sat still in the low light, the air heavy and unmoving, her phone screen casting a cold glow on her face. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, shaky with something that wasn’t quite fear—but it was close. She hated this. She hated needing anyone.

But logic—cold and precise—overrode everything else.

She could lie to herself all she wanted, but the truth was simple: Info-kun had reach. Access. Eyes everywhere. He was invasive and smug, and she’d never forgive him for it—but he was good at what he did. And she didn’t have time for petty pride. Not when everything she knew was on the line. 

She had stayed away from Info-kun for this exact reason. He was dangerous—not because of what he’d already done, but because of what he could do. He knew too much. Saw too much. The thought of handing him even more influence over her life made her stomach knot. One slip, one whim, and he could destroy everything she’d built with just a whisper.

That fear had kept her from reaching out in the past. Not fear of him, exactly—but fear of what she’d be forced to do if he ever turned on her.

Trust? No. That wasn’t necessary.

He wasn’t an ally. He wasn’t even a person to her—just a blade in her hand. One she didn’t like, didn’t respect, and wouldn’t hesitate to drop if it turned on her.

But for now, she needed a sharp edge. And he was the sharpest one she could find.

She typed the words anyway.

Her thumb paused just before the send button. She stared at it, jaw clenched.

Obviously, she didn’t trust Info-kun and never would. But if he was going to watch her every move like a parasite, he might as well make himself useful. Nothing more than a tool.

A dangerous one—but one she could wield.

She hit send.

“I need help.”

Three dots appeared almost instantly. Typing. Of course he was already watching.

“I was wondering when you'd cave.”

Her eye twitched.

“Don’t make me regret it.”

“You already do.”
“But remember, I’m not your enemy.”

“Not today at least.”

“Touche.”
“How about this? I’ll give you one favour. Free of charge.”
“To build trust. A good deal, don't you think?”

How ironic. Trust, from a guy who knew how many hairs she had on her head. Still… at least she wouldn’t be forced to take any panty shots.

“Don’t you want something in return?”

“I always want something.”
“But, right now, what I want is to see you win.”

She hesitated, fingers still against the screen. That answer made her uneasy for some reason. He was being too... generous. Why? What did he mean by win? And why did it matter to him? She almost asked why. Almost.

Then thought better of it. Cryptic answers were his entire brand.

“I don’t want to hurt her.”

“I never said you had to.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“Well, now that I think about it…”
“Should I even tell you? I feel like I’m being used.”

“You are.”

“So cold, Aishi.”
“And you didn’t even thank me for the chocolates.”
“Yet now you only reply when you want something.”

She clicked her tongue. At this point it felt like he was just being annoying on purpose. What a joke. “Wanting things” was literally the foundation of their relationship. What did he expect? A fruit basket?

“Stop stalling. I know the chocolates weren’t from you.”

“Oh? So you figured it out. Would you like to know who they were actually from, then?”

“I don’t care. Stop changing the topic and tell me what to do.”

“Fine.”
“Osana has a stalker.”
“He’s blackmailing her.”

A stalker? Ayano’s mind sharpened instantly. That… complicated things. Or maybe made them easier.

She didn’t feel concern—not in the way most would. Especially not for Osana. But if this stalker was a threat to her safety… for some reason, that didn’t sit right with Ayano.

She didn’t want Osana hurt. That wasn’t the goal.

“What does that have to do with me?”

“You can’t figure it out?”
“You’re smart, Aishi.”
“Help Osana with her stalker. Befriend her. Make her feel grateful.”

She paused.

“Grateful enough to be indebted to you.”

She stared at the screen. 

That... wasn’t the worst idea.

Still, something twisted deep in her gut. Was this really her idea of playing fair? Of staying pacifist? Manipulating someone into trusting her? She had promised herself she would never become like her mother.

Then again, wasn’t everything manipulation in some way? Compared to her mother’s actions, this was nothing. This was safe. Controlled. If anything, she would be helping Osana—if you looked at it the right way.

At least this way, no blood would be spilled.

Not literally, anyway.

“This feels wrong.”

“Which is why it’ll work.”

She sighed and tossed her phone onto the bed.

The worst part?

She already knew she was going to do it.

The next morning, Ayano checked the bulletin board near the shoe lockers. After scanning it carefully, she located Osana’s locker. 

With a quick glance over her shoulder to confirm the hallway was clear, Ayano slid a neatly folded note into the crack of the locker door, careful not to make a sound. She exhaled, feeling a rush of satisfaction.

The note read:

“I want to speak with you about stalkers and blackmail. Please meet me on the school rooftop at 7:30 AM. I hope you'll be there.”

The note was planted. But that wasn’t enough. If Osana didn’t actually know it was there, the entire plan would fall apart.

Ayano walked to the center of the school, scanning the corridors as she casually approached Osana, who was chatting with Raibaru. She kept her tone light.

“Hey, Osana,” she started, feigning curiosity, “I saw somebody put a note in your locker.” 

Osana blinked. “Huh? Really? That’s weird… I guess I’ll go take a look, then.”

Ayano gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Everything was in motion now.

Now then—she’d calculated it perfectly.

Every step of the plan, precisely mapped out. The note was placed, Osana was notified, and the clock ticked toward 7:30 AM. All that was left was for Ayano to head up to the rooftop and wait. 

She adjusted her posture, steeling herself as she turned toward the staircase. Her foot touched the first step.

Until—

“Ayano! Wait up!”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. That voice was unmistakable.

Aso.

Not the type of person she wanted to deal with right now.

She turned slowly. “What is it?”

Aso jogged over, a crooked smirk playing on his lips. His tie was slightly loosened—as always—and his hair was windswept like he had run all the way here just to find her. Probably had. “You heading somewhere?”

“I was,” Ayano replied flatly, eyes flicking toward the stairwell. Every second he talked was a second closer to Osana showing up alone.

“Yeah, I figured,” he said, then awkwardly scratched the back of his neck, suddenly avoiding her gaze. “Uh… you look really nice today.”

She blinked. She looked the same as she always did?

“I wanted to talk to you about—” he added.

“Did you stop me just to flirt?” she asked, deadpan.

Aso raised both hands in mock defense, his grin widening. “No, no! I mean, unless it’s working. Then maybe.”

She let out a slow breath. “It’s not.”

He laughed. “Alright, alright. Then let me get to the point. I was just wondering… are you part of any school clubs?”

“...I actually just joined the martial arts club yesterday.”

“Oh.” He paused. “You did?”

She gave him a blank look. “Is there a reason you’re asking now?”

“No reason,” he said quickly, shrugging it off. “Just… you always seem like you’re holding something back. I figured you’d be perfect for the sports club, y’know? I was gonna invite you.”

“How observant.”

His grin faded into something softer. “Anyway… if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here. I mean, it doesn't have to be sports or school or anything. It can just be about… you.”

Ayano stared at him for a second too long.

He was messing with her schedule. He was in the way. He wasn’t even part of the plan.

So… why did that last line feel so pleasant?

She didn’t really have time for this right now.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, already turning toward the stairs again. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

“Right,” he said, backing away, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “See you around, Ayano.”

She didn’t look back. 

As she climbed the stairs two steps at a time, she could feel it—time slipping through her fingers. Osana could already be up there, alone, confused, maybe even walking away thinking it was a prank. The moment had to be precise, perfectly delivered.

Her window of opportunity was thinning.

And Aso had just added a variable to her calculations.

A charming, persistent variable with bright eyes, the worst possible timing, and a very inconvenient ability to make her hesitate.

…

By the time Ayano reached the rooftop, she exhaled a soft breath of relief. The wind tugged at her uniform, and the sky overhead was painted in faint streaks of gold—early morning light.

The rooftop was empty.

Good.

She stepped forward, her eyes quickly scanning the space. No sign of Osana yet. Ayano checked her phone.

7:29 AM. She’d be arriving any second now.

Then came the sound—footsteps on the stairwell.

Ayano straightened. Perfect timing.

But something was off.

Two sets of footsteps.

Her gaze narrowed. A moment later, Osana emerged from the stairwell, orange hair bouncing with each step.

Behind her, just barely out of view…

Ayano didn’t even have to look directly. She could sense her. Raibaru.

Lurking just behind the ventilation unit. Eavesdropping. Of course.

Fine. Let her listen. This wasn’t about secrecy anymore.

Osana crossed her arms, cocking her head to the side.

“Ayano…? You’re the one who wanted to meet me?” she asked. “Your note said you wanted to talk about… blackmail?”

Ayano nodded once, calm as ever. “Yes. I know that you have a stalker. And I know he’s blackmailing you.”

Osana’s expression immediately twisted into defensive confusion. “No—you’ve got the wrong idea,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “I mean… yeah, someone is stalking me, but… he’s not blackmailing me!”

Ayano tilted her head slightly. “Then why haven’t you gone to the police?”

There was a pause. Osana looked down, biting her lip. Her voice dropped to a fragile murmur.

“He’s… got a hostage.”

Ayano’s eyes sharpened.

Osana took a shaky breath. “He says… if I call the cops, he’ll hurt them.”

A moment of silence.

“Who?” Ayano asked quietly. “Who is being held hostage?”

Osana groaned softly and looked away, almost embarrassed. “Ugh… I know you’re not going to take me seriously after this…” She hesitated. 

“It’s my cat.”

Ayano blinked.

“He… kidnapped her,” Osana said, her voice trembling. “He said he’ll kill her if I tell anyone. And he wants me to come to his house. He says if I want her back, I have to show up alone.”

She swallowed hard. “But I know… if I go inside, I won’t come out.”

Ayano’s gaze didn’t waver. “Did he give you his address?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Tell me where he lives.”

Osana’s eyes widened. “Why? What are you planning to do?”

“I’m going to rescue your cat,” Ayano said, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

“W-What?!” Osana’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. “Don’t! He’s dangerous!”

“So am I.”

Osana’s breath caught. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into!”

Ayano took a single step forward, her voice even, unwavering. “Just hand over the address. Let me handle it.”

There was a moment of silence. The wind whistled through the rooftop.

Finally, Osana sighed in defeat. Her voice came out small. “Fine… I just want this horrible experience to be over. One way or another.”

She reached for her phone, tapping quickly. “I’ll text you his address.”

Ayano’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She nodded. “Thank you.”

“But…” Osana glanced at her, worry etched in her expression. “Don’t blame me if you get hurt. And don’t let anything happen to my cat!”

Ayano turned toward the stairwell without hesitation.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Leave it to me.”

Then she was gone—calm, precise, already calculating the next step in her mind.

She wasn’t doing this to protect Osana, she told herself. Not really. This was to protect herself.

As Ayano descended the rooftop stairs, her footsteps quiet and measured, her mind was already shifting.

A hostage. A stalker. A house with a threat waiting inside.

None of it scared her.

Chapter Text

A knock at the door.

“President,” came Shiromi’s voice through the door. “Ayano Aishi joined the martial arts club.”

Megamo didn’t look up. His eyes remained on the papers down in front of him, pen in his hand stilling. “I see.” That was all he gave her.

He heard her footsteps retreat, relaxed and self-assured. Of course Shiromi wouldn’t linger—she knew better than to over explain. She always gave him just enough. That was why he kept her close.

But behind the smooth mask of disinterest, his mind shifted—quick, mechanical. The way a lock turns when the correct sequence is entered.

So. Ayano responded to the chocolates.

He hadn’t expected that. Not really. Not in this way.

He set the pen down quietly, the clack against the table barely audible. 

Not fear. Not even simple caution. This was preemptive. Strategic. She didn’t just flinch—she adjusted. Aligned. As if anticipating an attack before the blade was even drawn.

Too fast. Too deliberate.

Paranoia.

To Megamo, this wasn’t coincidence—it was correlation. She must’ve seen the chocolates, perceived them as a veiled threat, and responded by seeking self-defence training. That wasn’t rational. That was paranoia. And paranoia, to Megamo, confirmed danger.

The gift wasn’t necessarily meant to provoke. That wasn’t their total purpose. They were a variable—nothing more. A quiet insertion of static into her otherwise structured routine. 

Which is why chocolates, socially acceptable—especially on Valentine’s Day—were ideal. Harmless, forgettable. 

But if even that triggered a response, it meant she was already spiralling.

The fingerprint, the imported label, even the faint chemical trace—they weren’t oversights. They were bait. Carefully embedded anomalies. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But just enough for someone like her to notice. Someone who thinks like a predator.

He’d counted on her intellect. On her paranoia. If she wasn’t who he suspected, she’d have eaten the chocolate, maybe thanked the wrong person, and forgotten it by morning.

But if she was who he thought she was?

She’d recognise the trap. The inconsistencies. The fingerprint that couldn’t be matched, the scent that didn’t belong, the branding that no average student could acquire. All deliberate signals. A trail not to confusion, but to him.

Because this wasn’t about concealment.

It was about control.

He had wanted her to trace it. Not out of arrogance. Out of necessity.

Because if she was who he thought she was, he needed her to see him not as an observer. Someone watching her steps. A calculated presence. A looming silhouette in her periphery. 

And the chemical—just a trace of something industrial, sterile—wasn't to harm. It was to alarm. To unsettle. To simulate the scent of something more sinister than it was.

A phantom threat. Enough to stir instinct. To activate self-defense. But not enough to incriminate.

Because if she was dangerous, she’d respond to pressure. Like any volatile element, she would react predictably when the environment changed. This wasn’t just an experiment. It was an exposure test. And now, she’d revealed herself.

He hadn’t signed the card. Hadn’t scented the ribbon or decorated the box. It wasn’t sentiment, it was noise. Background hum. Something to observe from a distance. If she was stable, it would fade into her day like any other small kindness. If not—

She would flinch.

And she had. She’d done more than flinch.

Martial arts? That was a reaction, not a reflection. She read the gesture not with confusion or even mild curiosity, but as a threat. Then prepared to counter it. 

Why?

Because she thought she was being hunted.

Because she was already hunting.

Megamo leaned back in his chair, one leg folding over the other, thoughtful.

This wasn’t random. This was feedback. Data. Cause and effect.

Proof of guilt.

Instill paranoia, provoke reaction, then let her dig her own grave.

And she did. As soon as she’d joined such a club. Quick. Reactive. Almost militaristic in how she adjusted to a threat that didn’t exist—at least, not on the surface. She thought she was defending herself. Thought she was getting ahead of the danger.

But all she’d done was confirm his theory.

She wasn’t rational.

She didn’t dismiss the gesture, didn’t chalk it up to a classmate’s awkward attempt at affection or even a random prank. She saw it as a warning. A signal that someone was watching.

And then she responded accordingly. Escalation. Exactly as predicted.

And to Megamo, justice wasn’t about waiting for the explosion. It was about reading the fuse. Because if Ayano Aishi was unstable, then she was dangerous. 

And if she was dangerous, then she had to be controlled.

Ayano made her way down the stairs. Class would probably start soon, but that didn’t matter to her right now.

Her fingers brushed the railing lightly, movements measured, expression unreadable. Her steps were near soundless, as though she was more thought than person—already halfway somewhere else. To her conversation just now with Osana.

A cat.

Of all things, it was a cat being held hostage.

She hadn’t expected that. She was prepared for something else—something typical. A damaging photo. A vulnerable friend. A scandalous secret. But Osana’s voice hadn’t trembled over any of those. It had been over a cat. And the fear in her voice hadn’t been fake. That much, Ayano could tell.

That was what mattered. Not the hostage itself. Not what it was. But how much it meant to Osana.

And fear—that kind of fear—was easily exploited.

Still… a cat.

She didn’t feel judgment, necessarily. Just recalibration.

That changed the parameters.

This wasn’t about helping Osana anymore. Not exactly. It was about neutralising a wild card. An unpredictable element outside her usual sphere of control. Whoever this stalker was, he was dangerous enough to threaten a life and smart enough to keep the police away.

That made him a problem. Problems needed to be dealt with.

Rescuing the cat would kill two birds with one stone. It would eliminate a threat before it grew legs, and it would also put Osana in her debt. Ayano didn’t care much for gratitude, but she understood its value. If Osana saw her as a saviour, it would be better for everyone. Mostly her.

She kept walking, steps steady, gaze focused. She could be kind, when kindness was a strategy. And this? This was just that. Purposeful.

But deep down—beneath the logic and the planning—some part of her wanted to see that cat come home alive.

At the bottom of the stairs, she slowed.

The hallway buzzed with the usual noise—shoes squeaking on tile, voices tangled in morning chatter. It all blended into white noise, unimportant. 

Until her eyes caught on him.

And suddenly, nothing else mattered.

Taro.

Her breath hitched, subtle but real. There he was, just ahead—moving though the corridor, his figure framed perfectly by the soft morning light filtering through the high windows. It struck his hair just right, making it glow faintly, like a halo, the light washing his features in gold and shadow.

Her world, usually grey and measured, pulsed with colour once more, and for a second, Ayano forgot how to breathe.

She hadn’t been able to simply just… admire him like this in days, now that she thought about it. Time blurred when she wasn’t near him. Her plans had become mechanical, motivations tangled in routine. But the second her eyes landed on him again, it all came rushing back with razor-sharp clarity.

This was why she was helping Osana in the first place. This was why she was trying at all.

She watched him laugh at something his classmate said, the sound carrying faintly down to her. He scratched the back of his neck with an awkward grin, the same nervous habit she’d memorised months ago, and her chest tightened.

The sight of him, so simple yet so him, hit harder than expected. 

God, she hadn’t realised how much she missed it.

Her fingers twitched at her side, aching to reach out—

Then—

“Spacing out in the middle of the hallway, Ayano?”

The voice pulled her sharply back to the present.

She turned.

Budo stood a few steps away, arms folded across his chest. His bag hung loosely off one shoulder. He looked calm, friendly—like always.

He always looked like that, like someone who didn’t mind being approached, like the kind of guy who could talk to literally anyone and make it feel natural. But his eyes held something else too. A quiet attentiveness. Like she wasn’t just anyone.

But more than that, he’d seen her staring.

He caught the way her gaze had locked onto someone.

A third year, his classmate.

Taro Yamada.

Was that what had her so lost in thought?

Ayano straightened, smoothing her expression into something neutral. “Sorry.”

“No harm done,” Budo said easily. He glanced past her, briefly, toward the corner where Taro had already disappeared.

Ayano held her breath. Please don’t ask. 

“…You know him?” he asked, tone casual but not entirely careless.

“I know of him.”

“Huh,” Budo said, caught slightly off guard by how smoothly she’d closed that door. “Fair enough.”

He scratched the back of his head, looking almost sheepish, like he wasn’t sure if he’d just stepped on a conversational landmine.

And she just kept standing there, blank-faced, waiting.

“…You were staring pretty hard, though,” he added, a little more playful, trying to tease it out of her.

“Was I?”

Same tone. Same unreadable delivery. Though, internally? She was panicking, just a little.

She knew Taro and Budo were classmates—not that she’d memorised every person in Taro’s class or anything. Totally normal behaviour. Definitely not stalkerish behaviour. 

But the last thing she wanted to do was scramble to explain herself to Taro’s classmate.

He shifted. “Not that it’s a bad thing. Just… noticing. Observation’s key in martial arts, right?”

She tilted her head, watching his uneasy attempt to sound casual.

“I’m asking because you’re not usually this… distracted.” Budo cleared his throat into his fist, trying to recover. “Anyway,” he began, swiftly changing the subject. “You coming to club activities today?”

She shook her head once. “I can’t. Something came up.” She had a cat to rescue.

“Something important?”

“It’s personal,” she replied, voice steady, measured.

That was the wall. Her go-to phrase. Polished, practiced, firm. 

He didn’t try to climb over it. And she quite liked that, for a change. He didn’t push. He just shrugged lightly, like it really was fine. “Alright. Hope it goes okay.”

The easy acceptance threw her more than any interrogation would have.

Still, he didn’t leave. Instead, he smiled, a little lopsided now. “But you’re not ditching us for good, right?”

“I’m not quitting,” she replied. “I just need today.” Of course she wasn’t going to quit—not when Nemesis was still out there.

“Good.” His smile softened, genuine, like it mattered to him. “Wouldn’t want to lose our secret weapon.”

“I’m not a weapon,” she said, utterly straightforward.

Budo barked a laugh before he could help himself. “Metaphor, Ayano. I meant you’re… good. Really good.”

She said nothing, just blinked once, somehow making it feel like she was silently judging his terrible explanation.

He cleared his throat again, adjusting his bag awkwardly. “What I mean is—you’re exactly what the club needs. So don’t vanish on us.”

“…Vanish?” she echoed, voice soft but so toneless it made him second-guess if she was amused or genuinely confused.

“You know, like… fade away? Ghost us?” He made a helpless hand gesture. “I’m bad at metaphors.”

Her lips twitched. Not a full smile. Barely even movement.

But it was movement.

And Budo felt strangely victorious about it.

She let the silence hang for a moment before speaking. “You’re really serious about the club.”

He tilted his head to the side. Was that what it looked like? “I’m serious about people not wasting their own time. And I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you were worth checking on.” She had potential, plain and simple.

…Though truthfully, it wasn’t just about that.

Part of him didn’t want her slipping away so soon. There was still so much he hadn’t figured out yet—about the way she moved, like she’d already memorised a fight she hadn’t even had. The way she could be so quiet and still somehow more present than anyone else in the room.

It wasn’t just skill that made him curious. It was her.

Something about her stirred something in him he couldn’t quite name—something strangely familiar, like nostalgia for something he wasn’t sure he'd ever had.

“So don’t disappear on me, alright?” he added, grinning. “I was just starting to look forward to seeing you around. Juku—probably not so much. But someone’s gotta keep him humble besides me.”

Juku. Right. The guy she’d sparred with yesterday. Though, calling it a sparring match felt generous—more like a one-sided beating, but who’s keeping track?

“He left too many openings,” she said flatly, almost in agreement.

Budo laughed again. “Yeah, you destroyed him. Maybe he’ll actually start to listen to me when I tell him to fix his form.”

Then, he dropped his voice like he was sharing classified information. “If you ever feel like doing it again, I’ll look the other way.”

She blinked, almost slowly, like she was actually considering it.

It was somehow the funniest thing Budo had seen all day.

He let out a chuckle, then leaned back, casual and easy, like he’d never said anything at all.

It was teasing, but somehow it didn’t feel like a joke at her expense. Just light, warm—almost like they were in on the joke together.

She almost smiled back. Almost.

The sound of the bell interrupted the moment, signaling the end of the break. Budo glanced up, clearly aware of the time, but he wasn’t in a rush. He gave her a quick, easy smile and a wave.

As he turned to head down the hallway, he glanced over his shoulder one last time. “See you, Ayano.”

And then he was gone, leaving the hallway somehow feeling just a little less empty than before.

Ayano moved through the rest of the school day routinely, ticking off the moments like items on a to-do list. 

In class, she’d actually managed to make solid progress on the project with Osano, and for once, she’d found herself able to eat lunch in peace—quietly, alone, uninterrupted. It was a rare luxury. Everything was going just as planned.

Now, with the bell ringing, signalling the end of the school day, there was only one thing left to do: get the cat.

She considered the timing. Should she head over right away, as soon as she got home? Or maybe wait until it was darker, when she could slip in unnoticed? Her mind turned over the details as she made her way through the hallway, savouring the brief moment of peace.

…But just as she was about to exit the school grounds, a familiar voice broke through her thoughts.

“Ayano! Ayano!” The voice was frantic, almost breathless. 

Ayano looked up, frowning as Kokona came running toward her. Her purple twin drills bounced with every panicked step. Kokona looked like she might collapse any second, her face flushed with anxiety, her eyes wide and desperate. She was practically sweating.

Ayano raised an eyebrow. Kokona was usually cheerful, always calling her Yan-chan, but now she had dropped the nickname entirely, switching to her full name.

That wasn’t a good sign. 

She didn’t particularly empathise with Kokona’s drama, but something told her this wasn’t going to be a small thing.

Great. She’d barely managed to carve out some peace today, and now it was about to be shattered.

Kokona skidded to a stop in front of her, breathing heavily. “Ayano, you have to come! Please, right now! It’s an emergency! The drama club—something really bad is going to happen if you don’t come!”

Ayano blinked, her gaze narrowing. An emergency. Kokona’s tone was always dramatic, but this was something else.

Still, Ayano hesitated. She had plans, and getting caught up in another club’s chaos wasn’t part of it.

“I can’t, Kokona,” she started to say, “I have something I need to do after school—”

But Kokona’s face crumpled, her lower lip trembling as she looked like she might burst into tears. It was like a switch had flipped. Ayano couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Kokona this upset.

The sight made something in her waver, against her better judgment.

“Please, Ayano,” Kokona begged, her voice small, almost breaking. “You’re the only one who can help.”

Ayano sighed heavily, rubbing her temples. She knew Kokona well enough to recognise when she was about to get dragged into something. 

The last thing she wanted was to go back to the drama club—the place she resented so much, for obvious reasons. It had caused her enough headaches. But Kokona’s desperation was hard to ignore.

Just when everything was going as planned...

Ayano pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to suppress the frustration bubbling up. “Fine,” she muttered, half to herself. “I’ll go. But this better be a real emergency.”

Kokona squealed in relief, her face lighting up with a smile so bright it almost made Ayano forget how much she dreaded this whole situation. Almost.

“I promise! You’re a lifesaver, Ayano!” Kokona clung to her arm, dragging her in the direction of the drama club, and Ayano was helpless to do anything but follow.

Her plan was shot, and she had to deal with the drama club’s mess yet again. 

Guess the cat had no choice but to wait for later, now.

Kokona led Ayano back through the hallways, her pace quick, like she was on a mission. 

When they reached the gym and made their way backstage, Ayano scanned the area. Her eyes flicked around the space, trying to catch any signs of what this “emergency” might be. 

Empty chairs, half-finished props, and a group of students scattered around. A regular rehearsal.

Where exactly was the emergency?

Ayano folded her arms. What was this supposed to be?

Kokona didn’t waste a second, rushing to Kizano, who stood on stage. He paused mid-script, turning toward them. When he saw Kokona and Ayano approaching, he grinned, his voice dripping with exaggerated relief.

"Ah, finally!" Kizano sighed, his tone as if the entire universe had been holding its breath until Ayano showed up. 

“Good job, Kokona.” He flashed a smile, hands spreading wide like he were welcoming a standing ovation. “Ayano. Just in time. Your role is vital to the entire play.”

Ayano blinked, her face deadpan as she processed what he’d just said. 

…This wasn’t an emergency. 

This wasn’t anything close to what Kokona had made it sound like—

She’d been duped, pure and simple.

Her eyes flicked to Kokona, who was now awkwardly hiding behind another club member, her panic from just seconds ago completely gone. There were no tears, no frantic behaviour—just a guilty, apologetic look.

Ayano’s gaze hardened. She wasn’t wasting any more time on this nonsense.

"I’m leaving," she said flatly.

But before she could take a step back, Kokona popped out from behind the club member.

"Wait, no, no!" Kokona called, scrambling to catch up to her. She grabbed Ayano’s arm with a desperate look in her eyes. "Kizano, can me and Ayano talk privately for a second?"

Ayano shot her a sharp, incredulous look, and Kokona winced, but didn’t back down. She was still trying to salvage this.

Ayano sighed, everything pulling at her patience. 

Kizano looked at the two of them, not even bothering to hide his irritation, and waved them off. "Go ahead. But hurry up. We’ve got a rehearsal to run."

The nerve.

Kokona pulled Ayano to the side, tugging her away from the bustling rehearsal space, just out of earshot. Ayano stood stiffly, her patience wearing thin by the second. She opened her mouth to speak—

"Wait! Before you say anything, I’m sorry for lying," Kokona blurted out, stumbling over her words. "It wasn’t as bad of an emergency as I made it seem. But—technically! I wasn’t completely lying! This is an emergency to me, okay?"

Ayano’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Is it?”

“Just let me explain!” Kokona’s hands were clasped together in an exaggerated plea, her usual upbeat energy giving way to something a little more desperate. 

“...Kizano told me to bring you. And he said that if I didn’t, he would kick me out of the club. Yan-chan, you know how much this club means to me, right? Please. It’s all I have. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Ayano’s expression softened for a moment as she watched Kokona practically begging her.

She had to admit, there was something endearing in the way Kokona was so unabashedly sincere about her attachment to the drama club.

Kokona wasn’t just dragging Ayano into this for the hell of it. It wasn’t even about Ayano herself. It was about Kokona fighting to keep the one thing that made her feel like she belonged.

"Kokona…" Ayano started slowly, voice neutral but no longer cold.

"We’re friends, aren’t we?" Kokona interjected quickly, her eyes wide and filled with sincerity. "I know I messed up. But please... I didn’t want to lie. I just didn’t know how else to ask for your help. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

Friends. The word hit Ayano with unexpected force. Not because it was a pleasant thought—far from it. Until now, it had never really meant much to her. 

She’d never explicitly considered Kokona a friend. They were more like... acquaintances, people who happened to spend time together in similar spaces. But to hear Kokona say it herself, to hear her put that word between them—it made it feel… tangible. Official.

Hearing Kokona say it aloud, cling to it like it meant something...

Ayano exhaled slowly through her nose, her gaze shifting to the floor for a second as she thought it over.

She could hold onto her resentment, she could turn around and walk away right now, but Kokona had asked. And more than that, Kokona—her… friend—needed her.

She met Kokona’s gaze, letting the silence stretch for just a moment before answering. “...Fine. So what am I doing this time?”

Kokona’s eyes lit up, relief flooding her features as she bounced on her heels. "Thank you! Thank you so much!" She grabbed Ayano’s hands and squeezed them tightly. "Kizano will explain everything!”

She let out another sigh, her patience worn thin, but a quiet understanding settling in her chest. "Let’s just get this over with."

As soon as Kokona let her go, Ayano barely had time to think before the click of polished shoes broke through the quiet of the backstage.

Kizano approached with the measured grace of someone who believed the entire world owed him their attention. His uniform was immaculate, his hair carefully arranged like he'd spent hours perfecting it—which, knowing him, he probably had.

The faintest hint of a smirk tugged at his mouth.

Ayano held back a sigh. This was already going to be a headache.

"Ayano," he began, voice smooth and clipped, his tone carrying that unbearable weight of superiority he wore like a crown. "Listen carefully. I won't repeat myself."

He didn’t even bother with a greeting—of course not. People like Kizano assumed you should be grateful they were speaking to you at all.

"You are aware, I assume," he continued, "that our school’s Cultural Festival is next week. Our drama club will be performing Romeo and Juliet." He said it like the very name of the play should make her tremble with awe.

Ayano only stared back, blank. She prayed this wasn’t what she thought it was.

Undeterred, Kizano folded his arms neatly across his chest. "We require someone capable of meeting my standards," he said. "You demonstrated… unexpected competence when you substituted for us before. Crude in manner, but effective."

A compliment from him, if it could even be called that. Ayano didn’t react. She knew better than to give him the satisfaction.

"Thus," he continued, tilting his chin upward slightly, "I have decided you will play Juliet."

…There it was. Delivered as if it were a proclamation from the heavens.

Ayano blinked slowly.

Her? Juliet?

Was he serious? Ayano was emotionless by nature to everything—the only exception being Taro. But Juliet was... love, softness, desperation.

None of it suited her.

"No," she said simply.

Kizano's posture stiffened almost imperceptibly.

A refusal?

For a fraction of a second, a crack ran through his composure—the faintest lift of his brow, a subtle tightening around his mouth—but he smoothed it over so quickly most people wouldn’t have noticed.

Of course. Naturally, he would allow her a moment of foolishness. In his mind, her defiance was a minor inconvenience, not an actual obstacle.

"You owe it to Kokona," he replied, voice sharpening just slightly. "She spoke highly of you. A pity if her faith were misplaced." He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, slow and deliberate.

"Besides," he added, eyes narrowing, "it would be… unsightly to leave such a performance in the hands of incompetents. Surely even you must understand that."

"Then, speaking of Kokona," Ayano retorted smoothly, "I’d hardly call her incompetent. In fact, her acting was so convincing I actually followed her here because I thought there was real danger. Wouldn’t she make a perfect Juliet?”

For a second, Kizano said nothing. The corners of his mouth twitched. Irritation, or something dangerously close to embarrassment.

He exhaled through his nose, almost dismissively. Almost.

"Kokona is… adequate," he allowed, each word sounding like it cost him dearly. "But this role requires more than adequacy. It demands a certain… presence."

His gaze flicked away, then sharply back, as if forcing himself to meet her eyes.

"I don't want an acceptable Juliet," he said, voice low, tight with something he couldn't fully mask.

”I want you."

…At that, every member of the drama club turned to him in unison—heads swiveling, jaws dropping. For one perfect, stunned moment, the entire room stood frozen, caught mid-motion. Someone dropped a prop with a loud clatter, but nobody even blinked.

Because Kizano—Kizano Sunobu, who never cared about anyone but himself, who sneered at the idea of needing anyone—had just openly admitted he wanted someone else on stage.

It wasn’t just shocking. It was unnatural.

Kizano, feeling the stares boring into him, stiffened. His cheeks, normally so composed, flushed a betraying pink. He straightened to his full height, curling his lip into a sneer that didn’t quite hide the mortification burning underneath.

"What are you all looking at?" he snapped, voice slicing through the silence. "Continue setting the props! At once!"

Kizano muttered under his breath. "Imbeciles."

He turned back to Ayano and opened his mouth, about to continue his case, but Ayano spoke first, cutting him off before he could get another word in.

"Either way, I can’t do it. I’m already part of the martial arts club." The words came out flat, final, and it was clear she wasn’t budging on that.

Kizano froze for a moment, blinking as though the simple statement caught him completely off guard. He hadn’t anticipated that.

Mostly—a member of the martial arts club? Martial arts, out of everything? 

It was a curveball he hadn’t expected, and for a split second, his confident exterior wavered. He almost seemed... confused. 

Her delicate frame, her grey eyes that always seemed so distant from the world around her—it didn’t add up. She didn’t look like the type to throw punches. She looked too delicate for something like that. And yet, here she was, claiming to be part of a club that demanded not just strength, but discipline, grit, and determination.

It was almost... storylike, the contrast. A character in a play who defied expectations. He found it oddly compelling. 

He blinked again, his mind momentarily recalibrating. She was far more interesting than he’d initially thought. How had he ever considered her dull? It was a humbling reminder—never judge a book by its cover.

And so his composure quickly returned, a smug smirk flicking onto his face. No need to complicate things, then. He took a slow step forward, leaning in ever so slightly, his voice taking on a new, almost condescending tone.

"Nonsense," he replied, a touch of arrogance in his voice, "I never said you had to join the drama club." He gave her a once-over, his eyes lingering for a moment too long. "It’s just for this one play. You’re hardly being asked to make some permanent commitment.”

His gaze held hers for a moment, and for the briefest second, the edge of his mask slipped, just a little. "So, technically, you could help. Just this once. It wouldn't be violating any school policy.”

Ayano’s gaze flickered to the side, her eyes briefly landing on Kokona, who was busily setting up a prop on stage. When Kokona caught her stare, she beamed brightly, waving enthusiastically. 

Ayano sighed, silent for a long moment.

Kizano said nothing, merely waiting, already certain of his victory, certain that she would fold because he had calculated the odds and found them favourable.

"...Fine," she said, her voice flat.

Kizano allowed himself the faintest, most smug curve of a smile—not pleased with her, of course, but satisfied that the natural order had been maintained.

That someone as competent as he had, naturally, chosen correctly.

“Perfect. In any case, I won’t ask you to start today and join this rehearsal, since you seem so eager to leave for whatever reason.” He paused, letting his words linger, 

"But I expect you to report to rehearsals tomorrow," he affirmed. "Don't embarrass yourself."

With that, he turned and strode off, the click of his shoes echoing behind him like a final, triumphant note.

Ayano watched him go, expression unmoving, already regretting everything.

Her mind, though, was already elsewhere—on a problem far more important than the role of Juliet.

The cat. She hadn’t forgotten about it. In fact, as the laughter and chatter of the drama club members fading into background noise settled over her, the more urgent it seemed to get it back. 

There was still time, but every minute she wasted, every second she spent trapped in this absurd display, made it that much harder to get it. 

She turned, heading toward the exit of the gymnasium, her steps slow but determined. She was done here. Time to focus on something that really mattered.

Juliet could wait.

With a final glance back at the stage, she slipped out the door, her mind already set.

Chapter Text

Ayano slipped her bag over her shoulder and finally made her way toward the gate, her steps quicker than usual, almost as if she could outrun the last miserable hour.

The sooner she could get home and retrieve the cat the better.

Before anyone else could corner her. Before her whole stupid day could spiral even further out of control.

"Ayano?"

She stopped short, blinking up at the sound of her name. 

Budo stood a few feet away, his hands tucked loosely into his pockets, posture easy and open. 

"You're still here?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. "Didn’t you have somewhere to be?"

There wasn’t even a hint of accusation in his voice—just casual curiosity, like he was genuinely wondering. Even so, Ayano felt the prickle of unease crawl up her spine. 

Right. She wasn’t supposed to still be here

She hadn't planned for this. Hadn’t expected to run into him at all. And now, standing here, she knew full well how bad it looked—like she’d lied to the club leader about needing to skip practice.

She had said she wouldn’t be able to make it to today’s club activities, and yet here she was, still lingering around school like a liar.

A contradiction, that’s what it was. Plain as day.

But it wasn’t a lie—not exactly. Just... complicated.

She shifted her bag higher on her shoulder, buying herself half a second to even her voice out.

"Something unexpected came up," she said finally, the words coming out detached and a little vaguer than she meant them to. She didn’t like how mechanical she sounded.

But it was the truth, or at least close enough to it. The mess with the Drama Club wasn’t something she could have predicted—Kizano’s impulsiveness even less so.

And Budo didn’t press. He just stood there, relaxed, patient, and still wearing that easy expression like he had no intention of cornering her. 

He nodded like it made perfect sense.

Which, somehow, only made it feel worse. 

Like she was being trusted when she didn’t deserve it.

She could leave it there. He wasn’t forcing her to explain. But... no. Better to bring it up now, before things got messier later.

"It was for the cultural festival..." she started, eyes flickering up briefly to meet his. "Kizano asked me to help out with the drama club’s play." 

Her words were carefully neutral, almost testing the waters. "Is it okay to help another club? Even if I'm already in the martial arts club?"

"...Drama Club, huh?" Budo echoed, raising an eyebrow. "I didn’t take you for the theatre type."

"I'm not," she said immediately, a little flat.

He chuckled, cocking his head. “Then why’re you doing it?”

Ayano hesitated. 

For Kokona’s sake, she supposed…?

But the words stuck in her throat.

After a moment, she said instead, "...They were short on people."

Easier that way. Easier than admitting she’d acted on kindness, or whatever passed for it. She was an Aishi. She didn’t do things without reason.

"Hm. I figured. Kizano does have a way of roping people into things." He paused, studying her—not necessarily suspicious, just... thoughtful. Like he was trying to put something together.

"Anyway, it’s no problem," he continued, shrugging lightly. "If they need your help, you should do it."  There was an easy warmth in his voice, the kind that made it hard to doubt him.

Still, he added, with a slight laugh under his breath, "Just... keep in mind, the martial art’s club’s got something planned for the festival too. So don’t forget about us, yeah?"

She nodded. "I won’t.”

There was a tiny moment of silence between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just... lingering. Like neither of them was quite ready to walk away. The wind picked up, rustling the trees overhead.

"You seem... good at that," Budo said after a second, his voice softer.

She blinked. "At what?"

"Helping people," he said simply, like it was obvious. "You didn’t have to say yes to the drama club, you know."

Ayano? Good at helping people? Sure, she did a bunch of favours for random students now and then—but only to maintain surface-level connections. Just enough to blend in. That was all. It felt like he was giving her more credit than she deserved.

Ayano looked away, a tiny shrug lifting her shoulders. "It’s not a big deal."

"It is," he said, almost under his breath. “It always is.”

Another moment of silence. For some reason, the words hit something inside her, too close to some place she didn’t want to look.

She met his eyes fully, really looking at him—truly looking, maybe for the first time at all. 

And for a weird, flickering second, she felt like she almost recognised him.

Before, she hadn’t bothered to notice. She hadn’t cared enough to.

But now... something stirred at the edges of her mind. A faint, fleeting feeling—like she knew him from somewhere, but couldn’t place it.

She shoved it aside.

No time for that. No reason for it, either.

The wind stirred again, brushing loose strands of hair across her face.

Budo shifted too, hands tightening briefly at his sides. His fingers twitched—just for a second—like he might reach out to brush it back for her.

But he didn’t.

Before he could move, Ayano tucked the hair behind her ear herself, not even thinking about it.

Budo exhaled, almost a sigh. "Well... I guess I should let you go."

"Yeah," she replied.

Neither of them moved.

He cleared his throat. "...You’re really bad at leaving, you know that?"

"You’re still standing here too," she shot back.

He laughed—a low, genuine sound. “You’re right.”

For a moment longer, they just stood there, the late afternoon sun slanting between them, the air full of words they didn’t say. 

He inhaled slowly, like he was about to say something else—but he stopped himself, jaw tensing faintly. 

Then finally—he stepped back.

"Get home safe, Ayano," he said instead, his voice lower, almost reluctant.

"You too," she answered quietly.

Their eyes caught again—and again that flicker of almost-recognition brushed at the edges of Ayano’s mind.

She saw the faintest shift in his expression too, like he was feeling the same thing and didn’t know what to do with it.

They held each other’s gaze just a fraction longer than necessary, before finally turning in opposite directions.

Ayano didn't look back.

But for some reason, her steps felt slower than before.

Ayano slipped through the front door of her house without a word. 

The moment it clicked shut behind her, she exhaled—long and sharp, like she’d been holding her breath all the way home.

No time to linger. No time to process. She had a mission. 

She dropped her bag by the stairs and made a beeline for her room, already discarding her school uniform. The clothes she reached for next were deliberate: black hoodie, black pants, lightweight shoes. Nothing flashy. Nothing that could be spotted easily in the dark. 

This whole situation was… ridiculous, to say the least. But Ayano needed to do this right. She tugged the hoodie over her head and paused in front of the mirror.

Her eyes were tired and dull as ever. Her bangs—now slightly windblown from earlier, hung around her face.

She pulled the tie from her ponytail and re-gathered it into a bun. Not her usual style. But not all that different, either. Just neat. Tighter. Controlled.

Besides, if she ran into someone she knew on the way, it’d be better if she didn’t look like Ayano Aishi at all.

She smoothed back the flyaways with calm, practiced hands. Loose hair got in the way. It always had.

It was the little things—things her mother used to say. Appearances matter. Clean lines. No distractions.

She tightened her hoodie drawstrings, shoved her phone in her pocket, and headed downstairs.

Once outside, she slipped her earbuds in but didn’t press play. She just needed the illusion of focus. The world felt quieter that way.

She pulled out her phone and tapped open the message from Osana.

“Here’s the address. Be careful, okay? And text me when you get the cat!”

Ayano stared at the map pinned to the message. She memorised the location quickly, then locked her screen.

…

The subway hissed as it pulled into the station, brakes screeching.

Ayano stepped in with the crowd, sliding into one of the few empty seats without drawing attention. The train jolted into motion again, the creak of wheels filling the space. She exhaled, watching the city blur past the window. 

Just a few stops from here was the stalker’s house.

Her gaze drifted across the carriage—casual at first, until her eyes caught on a figure sitting directly across from her.

She blinked.

Osoro.

What was he doing here? 

He was hunched forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. His expression was unreadable. Half-bored, half… tired, maybe. He hadn’t seen her come in.

Around him, the subway buzzed with evening life. Office workers. Students. A woman with a tote bag full of groceries. But somehow, there was this strange bubble around him—like a no-sit zone. The seats on either side of him were empty, even though the rest of the train was nearly full.

It wasn’t new to Ayano that his presence practically repelled people. Obviously because of how he looked—scruffy uniform, combat boots, bruised knuckles, the faint scowl that never quite left his face. 

Still, seeing it happen in real time was something else.

He had that classic delinquent aura, the kind that made people instinctively look away.

Ayano didn’t.

She kept staring.

What were the odds?

Should she say something?

She considered it. Briefly. The idea of walking over, sitting next to him, asking something—anything—tugged at her for half a second.

But then what?

Hey, Osoro. Fancy seeing you here. I’m on my way to retrieve a stolen cat from a stalker. You?

…Yeah. No.

She turned her gaze back to the window, pretending she hadn’t seen him. It was way better that way, actually.

The train rumbled on. Her stop wasn’t far now.

Ayano glanced at him one last time.

He still hadn’t noticed her. Good.

Still unseen. Still separate.

She tugged her hood a little lower, fingers brushing her cheek as she stood, blending into the tide of passengers drifting toward the doors.

The subway screeched to a halt at her stop, doors hissing open.

She stepped out—

And immediately noticed something.

The people around her were shifting, moving aside with unusual urgency, like someone important—or dangerous—was behind her. It was subtle, instinctive. The kind of parting you only saw when someone didn’t need to say move to be obeyed.

It was kind of like watching Moses split the Red Sea.

She didn’t have to turn around to guess why.

But she did anyway.

Osoro was stepping out right behind her, hands stuffed in his pockets.

He had the same stop. Of course. 

She turned her head back around fast, practically speed-walking toward the stairs. If she moved quickly enough, maybe he wouldn’t notice her. Maybe the all-black stealth outfit would finally do its job.

Maybe—

“Ayano?”

She almost froze mid-step.

No. Nope. That was not her name. Not tonight. Osoro couldn’t have recognised her. Not from behind. Not like this.

She said nothing. Just kept walking, a bit faster now.

He must’ve gotten it wrong. Lots of girls had her height. Her build. A hoodie was hardly a full-face reveal. If she didn’t respond, he’d second-guess himself.

“Ayano, I know it’s you.”

She stopped.

Damn it.

She didn’t turn right away, just let out a small exhale and half-glanced over her shoulder. 

"...What gave me away?" she sighed, sounding more defeated than curious.

Osoro raised a brow and said, casually, “Your walk.”

She blinked, turning to face him fully. “What?”

“Your walk,” he repeated. 

“How.”

He shrugged, completely serious. “I’m observant.”

“…You’re weird,” she deadpanned.

“I’m weird?” He scoffed, gesturing to her getup. “You’re the one who looks like you’re about to rob a bank. Where are you headed dressed like that, anyway?”

She glanced down at her outfit. Okay—yeah, in a crowded, well-lit place like this, it probably wasn’t the most subtle choice. All black everything definitely stood out more than it blended in. But she hadn’t dressed for crowds or fluorescent lighting. She’d dressed for shadows. For slipping through darkness and moving unseen.

That had made sense… until now.

She shrugged, blatantly avoiding the question. “It’s comfortable.” No other reason. Definitely.

“Comfortable?”

“Warm, too,” she added flatly.

Osoro narrowed his eyes slightly. He clearly wasn’t convinced. “Right. Comfortable and warm.”

“I get cold easily,” she muttered, adjusting her sleeves over her hands like that’d prove it.

“You’re sweating.”

She clicked her tongue. “I’m not—why does it matter?”

He tilted his head. “Because you look like you’re about to commit a felony and I’d prefer not to be an accomplice.”

Ayano rolled her eyes internally. He wasn’t going to drop it.

“Fine,” she murmured. “I’m retrieving a cat.”

“…”

He blinked. “A cat.”

“Yes. A cat.”

“…Does the cat owe you money?”

She gave him a blank look, unimpressed. “No. Some guy stole a cat and is using it to blackmail… someone I know. I’m going to get it back.”

His expression shifted ever so slightly—less amused now, more grounded. “You serious?”

She nodded once, tight-lipped.

“Huh. Well. That explains the outfit.” Osoro studied her for a moment, then shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. 

There was a pause in the air. Then—

“Can I come?”

“…”

Ayano blinked. “Come where?”

“With you. Cat rescue mission. Whatever this is.”

She narrowed her eyes. “…Why?”

He shrugged. “Because I’m bored, and you look like you could use backup.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He tilted his head. “You want the real one?”

“Preferably.”

Osoro sighed and looked away. “I dunno. Just—feels wrong letting you go alone. That’s all.”

“You think I can’t handle it?” she asked, not offended, just tired.

“I know you can handle it,” he said immediately. “That’s kind of the problem.”

People who could handle themselves were the ones who took the biggest risks. The kind that got them hurt. And for reasons he wasn’t ready to unpack, he didn’t want that happening to her.

He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly annoyed with himself for talking. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter. I’m just saying—I’m around. You don’t have to do it on your own.”

She studied him, expression unreadable. “You’re being strangely earnest about this.”

“Regretting it already,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

“…So you just want to come because you’re worried.”

“I want to come,” he began quickly, deflecting, “because if you’re really about to break into some dude’s place over a cat, it’s either going to go really well or really badly. And I kinda want to see which.”

“So you want to come for fun.” Ayano corrected herself, unimpressed. “You’re not exactly making a strong case for yourself.”

No, he wasn’t. But he could see it in her eyes—the way she was trying to brush this off like it was nothing. She needed someone to stick around. Maybe she wouldn’t admit it, maybe not even to herself, but he could see it.

And for some stupid reason, he wanted to be there for her. Whatever this was. Whatever they were. Whatever they could be.

“Well. I guess I also don’t love the idea of you breaking into someone’s house over a cat. I want to see it go well. Or, you know, help if it goes sideways.” 

He paused, watching her reaction.

“Look,” he said, half a grin tugging at his mouth. “I won’t get in the way. Promise. I could even stay outside and hold your bag or something. Stand lookout. Real professional.”

She crossed her arms. “You’re not gonna be quiet.”

“I absolutely am.”

“You’re going to mess up my plan.”

“I won’t. I’ll be on my best behaviour,” he replied, holding up a hand sincerely. “I swear.”

She looked at him, skepticism clear in her eyes. “Really.”

“Dead serious.”

Ayano stared at him a second longer.

“…Fine,” she muttered, turning back toward the stairs.

She wasn’t entirely sure why she said yes.

…

Either way, she immediately regretted it.

They had finally arrived at the stalker’s house, the address Osana had sent her. 

There was no turning back now, but that hadn’t stopped her from dragging Osoro behind a bush nearby to recoup, re-evaluate, and rethink her entire decision.

This was such a bad idea. Why did she let him come? It wasn’t like she needed his help, and now she was stuck with his presence—his aura, which screamed for attention in all the wrong ways, and his tendency to just loom there, like a mountain of muscle that took up more space than it should.

Ayano glanced to the side at him, his tall figure crouched awkwardly beside her. His broad shoulders made the bush look even smaller than it already was, and his head was sticking out just slightly above the top. 

….Not inconspicuous at all. 

He was like a human beacon in the dark.

She exhaled, running a hand through her hair. “You’re gonna get us caught,” she muttered, leaning back against the bush. "You should’ve gone home."

Osoro didn’t look bothered in the slightest. “Relax, we've got this.”

“We? I’ll be the one doing all the work,” she deadpanned, crossing her arms. Her mind was still racing with a hundred different things that could go wrong. 

The plan was simple—get in, grab the cat, and get out. She could do this alone, and she would.

Except now she had him to deal with, and he wasn’t making this any easier.

“Just stay quiet,” she muttered, standing and pulling her hood over her head.

He pushed himself up from the bush, cracking his neck. “I’ll follow your lead, then,” he said, voice low and steady. 

Ayano narrowed her eyes at the modest two-story house in front of her. Her gaze swept over the dark front door, the lone porchlight humming faintly overhead, and finally settled on the power box tucked against the side wall.

There.

She tapped Osoro’s arm to get his attention—not that she really needed to; he had been watching her in silence, waiting for instructions like he was playing backup on some mission. Which, technically, he was now. Unfortunately.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Here’s the plan.”

Osoro tilted his head to listen. She pointed toward the power box.

“I kill the power. Lights go out. Someone’ll come out to check it—While they’re distracted, we slip inside.”

Osoro glanced at the box, then back at her, nodding.

She turned back to the house. “Don’t move until I give the signal. If you mess this up, I’m running out the door and leaving you to fend for yourself.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

Ayano gave him one last silent look before she approached the power box. She reached for the switch, her movements precise and quick. A sharp flick of her wrist, and the lights surrounding the house flickered and then went dark. The sound of distant hums from the electrical lines went quiet.

"Done," she muttered under her breath, already backing away from the box. "Stay down."

She moved swiftly, crouching low and slipping behind the nearest bush, her back against the branches. Osoro was a few steps behind, again awkwardly attempting to hide behind the bush with her. 

If the situation weren’t so critical, Ayano might have found it amusing how clumsy he looked trying to stay concealed, but as it was, she felt nothing but a steady, calm detachment.

She let him struggle for a moment before she slid closer, pressing her body against the bush next to him. With a quick, smooth motion, she slipped into the small gap between him and the branches. There was barely any room, but she didn’t care.

Her eyes remained fixed on the front door of the house, her mind already running through the next steps. 

But before she could settle into the quiet, she heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching.

She watched an older man, probably in his late 50s, shuffle out of the front door. He glanced at the darkened house, muttering to himself, before making his way to the power box. It was the stalker’s father, no doubt.

She instinctively tensed, eyes darting to Osoro. He was trying his best to stay still, but there was no mistaking the fact that his figure was almost sticking out from behind the bush.

To make matters worse, he was nothing like Ayano—who moved as if she’d been trained for stealth missions for years. She could control her heartbeat, silence her breathing, erase her presence entirely. Not at all like Osoro, whose strength lay purely in intimidation and raw physical force.

The last thing she needed was for Osoro to give them away, whether from a sharp breath or the inadvertent noise of his frame shifting.

And then, as if confirming her doubts, a low exhale slipped from him, louder than it should’ve been. 

The footsteps grew closer, and Ayano’s pulse quickened as she listened intently.

Her mind raced. 

He was going to get them both spotted at this rate...

Without thinking, she reached over and pressed her hand gently over his mouth. His breath hitched in surprise as she held him still, her fingers covering his lips.

Osoro went rigid for a moment, caught off-guard. But Ayano was too focused on the task at hand to notice the way his cheeks flushed beneath the darkness. She could feel his steady breathing underneath her palm, but she had to keep him quiet. 

The man’s footsteps slowed, and for a moment, Ayano swore she heard the father pause, as if he had noticed something amiss. Her grip on Osoro tightened, her fingers pressing against his face, hoping he would stay still.

Her heart pounded steadily in her chest as she held her breath, praying the man wouldn’t turn around.

Time seemed to stretch on forever. The sound of shoes shuffling closer, the tension in the air, all felt like it was hanging by a thread.

Finally, the father’s footsteps moved past them, and Ayano let out a quiet breath of relief as she heard the soft metallic click of the power box being tinkered with.

She slowly removed her hand from Osoro’s mouth, and without making a sound, Ayano carefully rose from the bush, her body tense with anticipation. She motioned for Osoro to follow. 

Ayano led the way, crouched low, moving with practiced stealth toward the house. She heard Osoro moving behind her, trying to keep pace, but the slight hesitation in his movements told her he wasn’t as smooth as he’d like to appear.

She glanced over her shoulder to see him not far behind, his eyes darting around the darkness, at anything but her.

"Stay focused," she whispered sharply.

"Yeah, yeah, I’m focused," he muttered, his voice slightly off, like he was trying to convince himself more than her.

Ayano narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you?”

"I’m fine," he said quickly, brushing it off, but there was a flush creeping up his neck. He tried to adjust his posture, acting like he didn’t just have his face in her hand for what had felt like forever. "Nothing to worry about."

Ayano raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment further. It was getting too complicated to keep track of everything now, so she focused on the task at hand, creeping closer to the house.

As they entered the house, Ayano carefully surveyed the area—looking for any signs of movement. The stalker’s father was still at the power box. 

The timing was good. Everything was lining up.

She slipped past the kitchen entrance first, her eyes flicking to the side. The faint clink of cutlery on ceramic confirmed what she already suspected. The mother was in there—probably preparing dinner, unaware that her home had been infiltrated. 

Ayano didn’t linger. She pressed herself low and quick against the wall, slipping past the entryway just as the kitchen light flickered in her peripheral vision.

Osoro followed behind her with more caution than grace. He tried to mimic her movements, though his build made it difficult to disappear the way she did. 

A creak beneath his foot made her halt for a second, but the kitchen sounds remained undisturbed. 

Phew. Lucky.

Once they cleared the kitchen, Ayano continued forward, the hall narrowing into darkness. The air felt different here—heavier. Her instincts prickled at the base of her neck.

This was it.

This was the part of the house people didn’t go to unless they had a reason to.

She stopped in front of a door at the very end. There were no lights beneath the frame, but something about it pulled her attention. Call it a hunch. Or something sharper. She could just feel it.

That was where he was. The stalker.

She raised a hand, fingers closing slowly around the door handle. It was ice cold. Her other hand reached behind her, palm out in a quiet signal for Osoro to stay close but wait. 

Carefully, slowly, she turned the knob.

The door creaked open on poorly oiled hinges, the sound slicing through the silence like a blade. Ayano tensed but didn’t stop. Inch by inch, she pulled it open, revealing the darkness inside.

Osoro hovered just behind her, his broad silhouette barely visible in the shadows. He didn’t say a word. Just waited, breath steady, letting her take the lead.

Ayano didn’t look back. Her eyes stayed locked on the room ahead, absorbing every detail. She stepped inside, soundless, a shadow against the dim glow of a small light in the far corner.

There he was.

He stood at the end of the room, his back hunched slightly, eyes glassy as he stared at his wall—no, shrine. 

Posters of… Magical Girl Pretty Miyuki covered nearly every inch. Glossy prints. Screencaps. Cut-outs from magazines. Dozens of them, maybe more.

He reached up with one hand, running his fingers gently over the photo like it was sacred.

“Ohhh, Miyuki… My love, my queen, my goddess…” His voice was high-pitched and reverent, as if he were whispering to a lover. “I knew you were real… I knew you existed somewhere in the real world… I knew we’d finally be together one day…” He sighed dreamily, entirely unaware of anything but the wall in front of him.

Degenerate.

Ayano’s nose wrinkled subtly. Her expression didn’t change, but the disgust simmered under her skin. She kept moving, her eyes breaking away from the wall and scanning the room.

There—by a small table, sitting in a pet carrier with its tail wrapped tight around its body, was the cat. Eyes wide, alert, the little creature stared at her in silence. Her fingers moved toward it, slow, deliberate, ready to lift the carrier—

“Meow.”

A single, tiny, innocent sound.

Ayano froze.

The stalker’s head turned.

His expression shifted in an instant—confusion first, then dawning horror.

“Huh—?!”

His eyes went wide, scrambled with disbelief. “Who are you?! How did you get in here?! Are you one of my sister’s friends?!”

Ayano didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. With fluid motion, she stepped forward and grabbed the carrier by the handle. The cat inside shifted slightly, but didn’t resist.

“Hey! Put that down! No! Don’t!”

He screeched the words like he was short-circuiting, arms twitching but legs rooted to the spot. Ayano tensed for a moment—bracing for him to lunge, attack, do something. Anything.

But he didn’t.

He just stayed there, trembling beside his shrine of posters, frozen like a deer in headlights. No fight. No bite. Just bark.

That was when it clicked.

He wasn’t dangerous.

He was pathetic.

The type of guy to steal a cat—but not the type to stop someone from taking it back. A coward who lived in fantasies because real confrontation scared him too much.

Ayano turned and bolted. The floor creaked under her quick steps, but she didn’t slow down—not even when the stalker screamed after her, “Come back here! Stop! You’re ruining everything!!”

He still didn’t move. Just shouted.

She slipped through the door and found Osoro waiting in the hallway, tense and ready. She nodded her head toward the exit.

Osoro didn’t ask questions. He just fell beside her, and together, they snuck out the back door, the only sound behind them the desperate, distant wails of Osana’s miserable stalker who couldn’t do anything but cry about it.

The house behind them faded into shadow, its occupants none the wiser.

Ayano glanced sideways at the carrier swinging lightly in her grip. The cat inside meowed once, loudly, as if happy to have been saved.

They reached the front gates, pushing through them, and took off at a brisk jog into the street. The silence of the late hour wrapped around them as the narrow roads stretched ahead.

For once, it felt like maybe things were going to go smoothly.

So of course, that was when Ayano felt it.

Another presence. Not Osoro’s. Not the cat’s either, unfortunately.

She slowed to a stop.

Stepping out from the shadows between two houses, like some vulture waiting for the perfect moment—because of course he did—stood...

Nemesis.

Ayano froze, her hand tightening around the carrier’s handle. 

You’ve got to be kidding.

“Running errands this late at night again?” Nemesis said, voice cold like frost. He stared directly at her, completely ignoring the cat, Osoro, the street—everything but her.

Why did he always have to appear at moments like this? Ayano was starting to sense a pattern. Was there a sign on her back that said “Please ambush me late at night right when I don’t expect it”?

Osoro stiffened beside her, his gaze narrowing. He took a half-step forward instinctively, as if placing himself between Nemesis and Ayano.

Nemesis’s eyes flicked toward him, brows lifting slightly in surprise. He hadn’t expected someone else to be here. 

Tch. This was just like last time.

In fact, Nemesis hadn't really planned on tonight at all.

He found he rarely needed to. Ayano always seemed to lead herself straight into trouble—it was her nature. Predictable in her unpredictability. And for some reason, her chaos always unfolded under cover of darkness. 

She always seemed to have plans in the middle of the night—when the streets were quiet, when the world was sleeping, when she was at her most vulnerable. That was when she moved. And that, he assumed, was when she felt the safest. Alone in the dark.

Which made her easiest to follow.

So when he’d stepped out from behind the house and saw her clutching a cat carrier, of all things, it didn’t surprise him.

What surprised him was that she wasn’t alone.

The boy next to her was muscular and rough around the edges. Not her usual brand of disposable acquaintance. This one had presence. Power. Loyalty. Nemesis could smell it from a mile away.

Still, he ignored him.

“…A bodyguard’s not going to help you here, Ayano,” Nemesis said coolly.

Osoro stood frozen for a second, fists clenched at his sides, watching Ayano tense up in front of him. His instincts flared the moment that shadow stepped into the light—he didn’t know who this guy was, but the way Ayano’s entire body locked up told him everything he needed.

Osoro's voice came out low and wary. “Who are you?”

No answer. Nemesis dismissed him without a glance, the way someone might ignore a fly in the room—annoying, but irrelevant. That alone almost set Osoro off. He took half a step forward before Ayano stopped him.

“Just keep an eye on the cat. Don’t get involved.”

He looked at her like she just told him to stand still while a car ran her over.

Was she serious?

She was serious.

He wanted to protest. His jaw tightened, fists curling slightly. Every muscle in his body was ready to step in and do something.

But Ayano had told him to stay put. So he did. Miserably.

Nemesis made the first move, swinging without warning. Ayano responded instantly. Faster than she had days ago. 

Her movements were slightly tighter now. Less desperate. More deliberate. Where her technique used to rely on raw instinct, now it was guided by precision—measured blocks. Calculated strikes. Not just reactive flailing. Still a bit scrappy and unpolished, maybe, but undeniably smoother than before. 

Thank god for the martial arts club.

Nemesis faltered. “You’ve gotten better,” he commented, not quite a compliment. More like an observation.

Ayano didn’t respond. Her eyes stayed locked on his, breathing steady, stance ready.

Nemesis watched her for a long moment. The tension in her posture. The way her eyes didn’t narrow or flare or show even the smallest spark of reaction. She had undoubtedly gotten sharper.

But she was still Ayano.

And Ayano would always be his to deal with.

The fight pushed them through the street—blocks, kicks, deflections.

Until Nemesis finally got the upper hand. Eventually, a swift strike knocked her backward, her body hitting the ground with a harsh thud. She gritted her teeth, dazed but still conscious.

Every part of Osoro screamed at him to move. When Ayano finally hit the pavement, it felt like something in him snapped.

No hesitation. No second thought. He placed the cat carrier gently by the curb.

Nemesis stepped forward again—until Osoro did.

Nemesis barely registered the blow until it came swinging in, a blur that he hadn’t managed to dodge. Osoro’s fist came down hard, fast—

—and connected.

Nemesis staggered.

A clean hit to the jaw. His head jerked sideways, body reeling back with a surprised grunt as his boot scraped against the asphalt. A line of blood trickled from his split lip.

Everything paused.

Nemesis straightened slowly, tongue running over his teeth as if tasting the blood.

His fingers touched his mouth, then pulled back. Red.

He stared at it. Then at Osoro.

For the first time in a long time, he had to actually step back. Reassess.

His eyebrows twitched with annoyance. He’d genuinely forgotten Osoro was there. His attention had been too zeroed in on Ayano. 

A mistake that was.

And now, it was clear this wasn’t some inconsequential pawn tagging along. This one wasn’t going to fold.

Nemesis’s face twisted, not with fear, but with pure, simmering irritation at the predicament he was now in. “How annoying,” he muttered.

WIth that, he turned.

And ran.

And then he was gone—vanishing into the dark between houses without another word.

Osoro gave chase, rounding the corner just seconds behind him—but when he got there, Nemesis was already gone.

Nothing but shadows. And silence.

The street was quiet again.

Ayano stood slowly, ribs aching but expression unreadable. Her hair was a mess, hood half-off, but she looked more annoyed than hurt.

Osoro came back, fists still clenched. Ayano walked over with the cat like none of that had happened.

Neither of them spoke.

They both took a moment, catching their breath in the cool night air, the weight of what just happened settling in their bones.

Then—

The cat meowed. Loudly.

“…Is it hungry?” Osoro asked, eyeing the carrier.

“Probably,” Ayano muttered.

But that wasn’t what mattered. Not right now. Osoro exhaled through his nose, then shifted the subject, voice low and edged with tension. “So… who the hell was that?”

Ayano didn’t answer immediately. She kept her eyes ahead, as if the question hadn’t been asked. Then she said flatly, “...I’m not sure.”

There was something bitter in her tone, but it vanished as quickly as it surfaced. Her grip on the carrier tightened.

”I get it now,” Osoro murmured.

”Get what?”

”Why you’re not afraid of me.”

She clearly had worse problems to worry about. And judging by the way she fought, she could more than handle herself.

Osoro didn’t press her. He wanted to. There were too many questions—what kind of guy ambushed people in the middle of the street like that? It clearly went deeper than Ayano was describing. But looking at her now, bruised yet still composed, he could tell this wasn’t something she was ready to talk about.

So he just said, quietly, “Next time, I won’t just stand back.”

She looked up at him. That usual unreadable expression. But softer, maybe. Just a little. 

She supposed… he’d actually been a better backup than she’d originally given him credit for. Grudgingly, she had to admit: if he hadn’t stepped in when he did, things might’ve ended differently. She could hold her own—fairly well, even—but Nemesis had still gained the upper hand in the end.

“…Thanks.”

That was all. But it meant something. She didn’t know if she was saying thanks for just now, or for the future. Hopefully not the latter.

They started walking again, side by side. No more words. 

But Osoro understood. He didn’t need more.

…Then the cat meowed again—louder this time, borderline demanding.

Without thinking, both of them muttered at the same time, “We’re getting snacks, calm down.”

They paused.

Glanced at each other.

Then looked away just as quickly.

Chapter Text

The two walked in silence, the street stretching quiet and dim beneath the streetlights. 

The only sound was the soft thud of Osoro’s boots and the occasional demanding meow from the carrier swaying at his side.

Ayano pulled out her phone mid-step.

“Hold it up a bit,” she said, gesturing vaguely at the cat.

Osoro raised an eyebrow. “…Why?”

“So I can take a picture. Just do it.”

He lifted up the cage with a grunt. “Hurry up then.”

Ayano held up her phone and tried to frame the shot.

Snap.

“You moved,” she said flatly.

“I didn’t move.”

“It’s blurry.”

He muttered something under his breath, something very unflattering, and held the cage up again. Ayano retook the picture—this time sharp and in focus.

She sent it off to Osana with no caption.

The response came within seconds.

“OH MY GOD THAT’S MY CAT!!”
“I can’t believe it… you actually rescued her!”
“Now I can finally report that scumbag to the police!”

Ayano blinked at the screen as the messages poured in, thumbs hovering just above the keyboard. 

She was about to type something back when one more text popped up.

“Also… uh. who’s holding up the cage…? lol.”

…Ah.

Ayano glanced at the photo. Sure enough, Osoro’s torso was visible in the shot—along with his bruised knuckles that definitely didn’t scream friendly civilian.

She hadn’t even thought about it when taking the photo. Just focused on the cat, not the implications.

Now, though?

Of course Osana noticed. She was nosy like that. 

She saw the typing bubbles appear.

Then vanish.

Then reappear.

And vanish again.

Yeah, she was definitely putting two and two together, and ending up with the wrong sum.

Ayano could practically hear the gears turning through the screen—some internal calculation that probably ended in: don’t ask questions you don’t want answered.

Finally, a new message:

“...Nevermind. Thank you, Ayano!!”

Osana, apparently, decided ignorance was bliss. As long as the cat was fine.

Ayano sent one more message.

“I need to return your cat… and, I need to have an important discussion with you. But it’s too late at night right now. Please meet me at my house before school tomorrow.”

“I will! And, one last time, thank you!”

Ayano locked her phone and slid it back into her pocket.

Osoro glanced over. “So…” he started, dragging the word out. “Why’d you even rescue the cat? Out of the goodness of your heart?”

God, no.

Ayano didn’t even look at him.

Her reply was vague, as always. “I had my reasons.”

“…Right,” Osoro muttered. “Of course you did.”

The doorbell rang.

Ayano, already dressed and ready for school, moved to answer it. Standing there was Osana, beaming with the kind of energy Ayano couldn’t manufacture before 7 AM.

“Hi! You have a nice place, Yan-chan!” 

Yan-chan. So she was already using nicknames now. That was fast. Did that mean she’d officially acquired Osana’s trust?

“Thanks,” Ayano replied flatly, stepping aside to let her in.

Osana’s eyes roamed the room with curious energy. “Where are your parents?”

“Overseas,” Ayano answered simply.

“So you live here all alone? That must be so hard! I’d probably forget to feed myself.”

Ayano shrugged, already walking toward the table. “I manage.”

“Anyway, I really just wanted to thank you again,” Osana began, her voice softening slightly as she sat on the edge of the couch. “For saving my cat. And for… saving me. From him. I don’t even want to say his name. That was a nightmare. I’m so glad it’s over.”

Without replying, Ayano grabbed the cat carrier from the low table by the window and carefully opened its door. 

The cat padded out gracefully, blinking around at the unfamiliar room before calmly settling near Osana’s feet.

Osana immediately dropped to her knees, scooping the feline into her arms with a small, choked gasp. 

“My poor baby…! Aya-chan,” she murmured, nuzzling into its fur with heartfelt relief.

Ayano blinked. “...Yes?”

Osana looked up, confused. “What?”

“You called me.”

“What? Oh—no! I was talking to the cat.” She gestured to the cat with a sheepish grin. “That’s her name. Aya-chan.”

“...Oh. You named your cat Aya?”

“Huh? No! I didn’t name her,” Osana explained, petting the cat fondly. “Osano did. He was the one who found her first. He said the name ‘Aya’ just came to him.”

Ayano stared at the cat curled in Osana’s lap. She hadn’t really let it out of the cage since she brought it home, so she never got a good look at it. But as it blinked up at her slowly, its amber eyes half-lidded in contentment. The bright orange fur… the little white patch under its chin…

Recognition struck.

This was that cat—the one she and Osano had found together, soaked and shivering on that tree in the pouring rain. It looked healthier now, a little rounder, definitely more spoiled. Clearly well-fed.

So Osano had really taken it in. Kept it safe. Named it.

Aya.

Oh.

Well.

…That was a weird coincidence.

The tea kettle let out a sharp whistle, yanking Ayano from her thoughts before she could think about it any deeper.

“The tea is ready,” she said. “I’ll be right back. Feel free to keep talking.”

“Oh, I will!” Osana chirped as Ayano turned toward the kitchen.

And sure enough, her voice carried across the house like a radio left on too loud.

“I mean, I can’t imagine what it’s like to become obsessed with someone after just meeting them!” Osana’s voice rang out, high and irritating. 

From the other side of the room, Ayano opened a cupboard, but her hands stilled momentarily. Somehow, she felt the words dig under her skin. 

Ayano could imagine what it was like. All too well. She’d lived it.

Osana said it all with the casual off-handedness of someone who’d never been on the inside of it—never felt it burning in their lungs like wildfire. But as much as Ayano tried to lie to herself, she too had fallen for Taro at first sight. Not gradually. Not gently. It had hit her all at once, sharp and breathless. 

Her mother once told her that real love wasn’t soft—it gripped your heart until you couldn’t breathe. Until the entire world bent around one person, and nothing else mattered.

So what did Osana know about love that she didn’t?

Ayano turned the question over in her mind, and the answer tasted like rust.

A lot more.

Because what Ayano felt wasn’t love at all. She’d learned that much from watching her parents throughout the years.

“He said he loved me,” Osana continued. “But… I don’t think it was love. It was just a sick, twisted obsession that he thought was love.”

It wasn’t just annoyance that Ayano was feeling anymore. It was shame.

Because the words were too familiar. Too close.

In her darkest moments, Ayano realised… she wasn’t so different from the stalker Osana despised—and the thought left a bitter, metallic taste in the back of her throat.

She’d always thought she was the exception.

But maybe she wasn’t.

Maybe she was just another version of the same sickness that plagued her mother. Maybe she was just another monster, bound to give into the darkness eventually.

Osana’s stalker had stolen her cat in the name of love. And Ayano had retrieved it—but not for Osana’s sake—for her own personal reasons.

This entire time, she had an ulterior motive.

And the thought sat heavy in her chest. 

Ayano’s hand twitched toward the high shelf where her mother used to keep things.

Things meant to be hidden.

Poison the tea.

The whisper slithered through her mind, seductive and calm. Just a few drops. She'd never see it coming. Ayano would be free of her.

The thought didn’t come in her own voice. It came the way her darker thoughts always did—quiet, precise, absurdly reasonable. Just a few drops. The kind that wouldn’t leave a trace. No one would suspect. No one would notice. No one would know.

Ayano's jaw tightened. She stared at the open cabinet, fingers brushing the edge of the shelf.

It would be easy.

It would solve things.

She could end the conversation. End the judgement. End the part of herself that ached to be good and kept failing at it.

And yet…

“…But, starting today…” Osana’s voice softened, drifting warmly through the room, “I won’t have to worry about it anymore. It’s all thanks to you!”

Ayano froze, snapping out of her trance.

The whisper died.

Her grip loosened, and her hand dropped.

She poured the tea.

Just tea.

What the hell was she even thinking?

In that moment, she felt a strange disgust bloom in her chest. Not at Osana—at herself. For even letting that idea flirt with her mind. Poisoning her wouldn’t have solved things. It wouldn’t have solved anything at all.

Ayano returned to the living room, placing the cup in front of Osana.

“Here’s your tea.”

No poison. No dark thoughts. No giving in.

Just Ayano.

Still trying to figure out what kind of person she was becoming.

“Thank you! Oh—wow, I just realised I’ve been rambling this entire time,” Osana laughed sheepishly, brushing back a lock of her hair. “You said you had something important to tell me, right?”

“Yes,” Ayano said evenly. Her voice was calm—too calm—but inside, her thoughts crawled. Her heart didn’t race. It rarely did. But something in her tightened. “It’s about the boy from Class 3-2. The one you have a crush on.”

Osana flinched. “H-huh?! I don’t have a crush on him! He’s just my childhood friend, that’s all! I don’t have feelings for him at all!”

An obvious lie. 

Ayano could see it—hear it—in the slight hitch of her voice, the way her eyes darted away for just a second too long. 

“...If that’s true,” Ayano started, still expressionless, “then you wouldn’t mind if I confessed my love to him, would you?”

Osana’s eyes widened. “Huh? Confess your love? Are you saying that… you have feelings for him?”

Yes. No. What was it, really? 

Infatuation? Curiosity? Obsession disguised as longing? Ayano didn’t know. She only knew that whenever she saw him, something in her shifted—something colourful and dangerous.

“Yes,” she replied. “Deep feelings. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.” The words felt strange as they left her mouth. It wasn’t love. It couldn’t be. But… “And I can’t bear the thought of seeing him with anyone else.”

She looked at Osana then, watched how her face stiffened with pain. Ayano should’ve stopped there. But she didn’t.

“I know that you love him,” she continued quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “And I know this is selfish… but… please, don’t take him away from me. Let me—”

Let her what? Stalk him? Continue to hover at the edge of his life like a shadow, waiting for some invisible sign? What was she even asking for?

“...Let me… Let me try to win his heart.”

There. It was done. Ayano’s words hung in the air, no way to take them back now.

Osana was silent. Her mouth opened, then closed again. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer. “You… got me… It’s true. I do have feelings for him.”

Ayano’s stomach twisted, even though her face didn’t change. She’d known. But hearing it still hurt. Why did it hurt?

“But… after everything you’ve done for me, I could never take someone away from you….” Osana said, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Okay… I’ll do as you’ve asked. I’ll stay away from him.”

Ayano stared at her. That was it? Just like that?

“Thank you,” she said, because it was the right thing to say. The only thing to say. But the hollowness in her chest didn’t ease.

“But,” Osana added, her voice hardening slightly, “you better take really good care of him, okay?!”

Ayano blinked. She wasn’t sure what that meant. How could she take care of something she didn’t understand? How could she protect something fragile when all she knew was how to destroy?

She gave a small nod anyway. “Don’t worry. I will.”

She would figure it out. Somehow.

Even if it wasn’t love—

Even if she didn’t know what love felt like—

He could make her feel. And that, at least, she understood.

…

Ayano stepped through the school gates, her heart feeling oddly light. 

Osana wasn’t talking to Taro this morning. 

There was none of that familiar loud conversation, no animated bickering echoing from the usual spot by the side. That corner of the campus, always a sharp jab of irritation in Ayano’s peripheral vision, was blissfully empty.

She couldn’t decide if it was a victory or something else entirely.

Ayano’s fingers twitched at her sides as she walked. The space Osana once occupied had been cleared, but what had filled it? Nothing. Just air. Possibility. Doubt.

The absence should have been a win. Instead, it felt like staring down a blank canvas and realising you don’t know what to paint. 

She got what she asked for. 

…So now what?

She had no plan for what came next. No roadmap. She hadn’t even fully decided if she actually wanted Taro in the romantic sense… or if he was just an anchor, something to fixate on when everything else in her life was spiraling into grey.

Was it really about him? Or was it about not losing? About being chosen?

She manipulated Osana for this. Ayano made Osana step aside. And she didn't even know if she wanted him.

The thought clung to her uncomfortably. Still, she decided—no, resolved—to try. To do what normal girls did. She’d talk to him. She’d have an actual conversation, a real one, and she’d see where her feelings led. If she could even hold one without her mask cracking.

That alone would be progress.

It was a fragile hope, but she clung to it anyway.

Her shoes tapped quietly against the floor as she stepped into the school building and neared the lockers.

Then she paused.

There—off to the side. Someone stood half-turned, chatting with Saki and Kokona. Black hair. Familiar frame. Familiar posture. Her breath caught.

Taro?

A soft flutter stirred in her chest. What perfect timing.

But… wait. He looked just a little shorter than usual. And the way he stood—relaxed, almost too casual. For a moment, it almost felt like—

He turned.

And everything in her stilled.

No. Not him.

The grin, the tilt of his head, the subtle calculation behind his every move—it was all wrong. This wasn’t her harmless boy with a gentle heart.

No. It was the other one. The wrong one.

Not Taro…

…Hanako.

The wrong Yamada. The wrong smile. The wrong everything.

What was he doing here?

He was leaning casually against the lockers, chatting with Saki and Kokona as if he hadn’t tried to attack her just last night. As if he were just some charming new student, not a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Ayano didn’t stop walking. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. She kept her expression blank, her eyes forward, even as her heart gave a single, jarring lurch.

...He was wearing the Akademi uniform.

So, he transferred in. Why? To mess with her? To watch her up close? He was the one who said he didn’t want personal lives involved—and now here he was.

Ayano kept her head down, slipping off her outdoor shoes and reaching for her indoor pair. If she moved quickly, maybe she could just blend into the stream of students, disappear into the crowd before getting noticed—

“Ayano!” Saki sing-songed, already grinning. Before Ayano could sidestep, she had looped an arm around hers like they were best friends.

“We were just talking about you,” Kokona added, her voice sweet with a warm edge. 

“You remember Hanako, right?” Saki said, nudging Ayano. “ I can’t believe he transferred in now, of all times.”

Hanako glanced over, a smile on his lips. “Morning.”

Kokona gave Ayano a meaningful look. “It’s kind of perfect, right? He already knows people here. Especially you.”

Ayano blinked, her face deadpan. What was that supposed to mean? As if she was the main connection—not his literal blood-related brother.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Saki pouted, her tone turning playful. “You two seemed so close during the gokon.”

Ayano fought the urge to sigh. Of course they’d bring that up.

“It’s not like that,” Ayano replied flatly.

“Oh?” Hanako’s smile was effortless, his voice smooth. “Then what is it like?”

He didn’t look at her. Not directly. Just let the question hang, like a lure in still water.

Ayano met his gaze coldly. “It’s like nothing. There’s nothing between us.”

“Mm. Could’ve fooled me,” he murmured, “You sure looked like you were enjoying yourself that night.”

Saki and Kokona turned to each other in unison.

“Oh my god,” Saki whispered, clutching Kokona’s arm like she was witnessing a drama unfold. “Ayano, what actually happened between you two?”

“Nothing,” Ayano sighed.

Hanako laughed, soft and velvet-smooth. “C’mon, don’t ruin the fun. You’ll make me sound delusional.”

“You are.”

He was doing it on purpose. The tone, the phrasing—he knew exactly how it would sound. Suggestive, loaded, perfectly calculated to get under her skin and twist the situation to his advantage. Of course he’d weaponise implication. 

He was setting her up. Making her play the part. She could feel Kokona watching her, sincerely invested, thinking she was helping Ayano navigate some new romance.

Ayano didn’t blame her.

But she did blame him.

She wanted to drag him into a hallway, slam him against the wall again, and demand what the hell he was doing here.

But she couldn’t. Not here. Not yet.

Kokona leaned in like she was sharing a secret. “Also—can you believe he’s a first-year? I never would’ve guessed that night at the gokon.”

Saki gasped dramatically. “Right? That means we’re your upperclassmen!” She shot Hanako a teasing wink. “Better treat us with respect.”

Hanako gave a small, faux-innocent bow. “Of course, senpai. I’d never dream of being disrespectful.”

Ayano barely suppressed the urge to roll her eyes.

“Why’d you even transfer?” she asked, her voice colder than intended.

Hanako shrugged. “Heard this place had good clubs and facilities. Figured I’d try something new.”

“That’s it?” Saki asked, eyebrow raised.

Hanako’s smile didn’t slip. “And, y’know. My brother goes here. Thought I’d say hi.”

Every word was polished. Believable.

Every word was also a lie.

Ayano knew it.

So did he.

“That’s so sweet,” Kokona gushed, clearly buying into the act. “Moving schools in the middle of the term just to be near family?”

Hanako gave a soft, practiced, laugh. “I guess.” He looked back at Ayano, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “Besides, I thought I’d feel more… motivated here.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Familiar faces help, don’t they, Ayano-senpai?”

Okay. There it was again. That subtle prod. That challenge disguised as casual conversation.

Ayano didn’t bite.

She didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t engage.

Her voice came out low, almost disinterested. “...I appreciate the conversation, but I have to go.” She brushed past the group smoothly. “Excuse me.”

Saki pouted. “Aw, stay a minute!”

“Sorry,” Ayano said, already moving past. “See you later.”

She didn’t look back. Her nails dug into the strap of her schoolbag as she climbed the stairs.

The school felt smaller now. Claustrophobic.

She had cleared one obstacle—only to find another waiting. Closer. Smiling. Wearing a new uniform.

Hanako Yamada. 

Just what was it that he wanted from her?

...

She didn’t even realise where she was walking until the familiar scent of miso and sliced vegetables reached her.

The cooking clubroom.

Of course.

Her body had, once again, managed to take her here on autopilot.

She hadn’t eaten this morning. Not properly. The morning talk with Osana had stretched longer than she’d planned. Now, hunger settled deep inside her—quiet but persistent.

Well, she was already here. Might as well, right?

The door slid open with a soft click. Amao was already there, chopping vegetables, meal prepping with his usual gentle focus.

“Oh, hey, Ayano,” he greeted, eyes lighting up the moment he saw her. “What’s up?”

She gave a faint nod. Her voice was flat, but honest in its own way. “I didn’t have breakfast.”

A pause.

“I’m hungry.”

She didn’t usually express things like that so freely. Not out loud. Not directly.

A small part of her wondered if she was taking advantage of Amao’s kindness. She always came here when she needed something warm—food, comfort, quiet. It was becoming a pattern.

Amao chuckled, and his smile softened, a warm light in his eyes. “Well, you’re at the right place. I’ll make you something. Just sit tight.”

The tension that had curled beneath her skin since the encounter with Hanako loosened—just slightly. The rhythmic tapping of Amao’s knife against the board was steady. Grounding. Soothing. 

She watched his hands move, graceful and precise.

How was it that such a kind, gentle person could become so focused the second he started cooking?

“Ayano?” Amao’s voice cut in gently over the soft bubbling of the pot. “Can you grab my apron? It’s on the hook.”

“Okay.” She stood without a word, retrieving the apron in one smooth motion.

She approached, intending to hand it to him—but paused.

He hadn’t stopped working. Knife in one hand, ladle in the other, caught in the rhythm of chopping and stirring at once. There was no good moment to hand it to him—not without interrupting something.

Well then.

Without a sound, she stepped behind him and reached over to lift the apron over his head, letting the fabric settle gently on his shoulders.

Amao froze mid-motion, the blade hovering just above the cutting board.

“Ayano—wait, I can—” he stammered, voice suddenly flustered and rushed.

“You’re busy,” she replied simply, already tying the strings around his waist.

Her fingers brushed against his sides as she tightened the knot, her movements efficient and calm.

Amao went rigid. Then pink. A flush bloomed from his ears down his neck.

“I—uh—” His voice came out in a breath. “Thanks.”

Ayano tilted her head. “Is there a problem?” she asked, expression as calm as ever.

Amao looked away, ears burning. “No—It’s fine.”

He returned to chopping, but the rhythm was off now. His hands moved slower. Less precise. Like his brain was tangled somewhere else.

Ayano said nothing, just took her seat again. The quiet filled the room again. She rested her chin in her hand and watched the pot bubble over.

Maybe she was getting too used to this.

Maybe that was the problem.

The bell rang, signalling the end of first period.

Students began packing up, chattering as they filtered out into the hallway. Ayano remained seated, calmly closing her textbook. She reached for her pen when—

“Hey,” a voice said beside her.

She glanced up. Osano.

He was standing just beside her desk, his usual scowl somewhat softened. His hands were shoved in his pockets, and he was… trying to be casual. Trying too hard, probably.

“I, uh—” He scratched the back of his neck. “About… the cat.”

Ayano’s face didn’t change. “Yes?”

“I just wanted to say… thanks. For helping out.” He shifted on his feet. “I mean, Osana told me you helped find it, so…”

Ayano gave a small nod. It was probably safe to assume that he didn’t know the real reason the cat went missing. “Well, I’m glad you actually took care of Aya-chan properly.”

Osano froze. Aya-chan.

His brain fumbled, panic lighting behind his eyes. She knew. How did she know?! He never said her name out loud—did he? No, he definitely didn’t. He was sure. So then—

Of course.

Osana must’ve told her.

Great. Perfect. And Ayano—Ayano had mentioned it so offhandedly, so innocently, like she didn’t even realise the connection behind the name.

And somehow, that made it so much worse.

His face turned crimson.

Ayano, meanwhile, simply studied him. There was a faint tilt to her head, an almost analytical look in her eyes. She blinked slowly, taking in his complexion. He was bright red.

“...? You look like you have a fever,” she said.

Before he could react, she raised a hand and gently placed her palm against his forehead.

Osano flinched hard, jerking his head away like he’d been electrocuted. His ears burned even hotter, his entire face now violently red.

“I—! I’m fine,” he blurted, stepping back. “I’m fine.”

Ayano blinked again, lowering her hand in that same slow, unhurried way.

“…You should go to the infirmary if you—”

“I’m fine,” he said again, cutting her off. His voice cracked, embarrassingly. “I have to go. I’ll see you later.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and practically marched off, muttering something under his breath.

Ayano watched him go, lips parting slightly in thought. Peculiar.

She was just about to leave too, her fingers curling around the strap of her schoolbag—

“Ayano.”

She turned.

Mido-sensei stood by the classroom door, arms crossed and brow slightly furrowed.

“Come in for a moment,” he said, gesturing inside. “I need to talk with you.”

Talk? About what? 

Ayano’s gaze lingered for a moment, but then she stepped back into the room without a word.

The door clicked shut behind her.

He moved across the now-empty classroom with a languid sort of confidence, sleeves rolled his elbows, collar loose like usual. Still, his desk was surprisingly neat—except for a familiar mess laid across it.

All of her quizzes. Worksheets. Assignments. Even the occasional reading reflection.

Ayano’s gaze flicked down, then up to meet his. Then back down again. Why?

She always submitted everything on time. Not too early. Not late. And she always aimed for the class average—not too smart, not too stupid. Just… forgettable.

So why did it feel like she was in trouble?

Mido-sensei leaned back against the desk’s edge, crossed one ankle loosely over the other, and gave her a look—part amusement, part disappointment, like a cat who’d caught a mouse playing dead.

“Ayano,” he said slowly, voice low and deliberate, “did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”

“I’m sorry?”

He picked up one of her papers and waved it gently in the air. “Every. Single. Assignment. Every test, quiz, worksheet… you’ve scored the exact class average. Not a point above. Not a point below.” He let the paper drift back down. “Do you know what the odds of that are?”

She stared at him evenly. So that’s what this was about? Really?

“It’s a coincidence,” she denied.

Mido raised a brow, and his mouth curved into a slow, almost lazy smile—like he enjoyed this far too much. “Mm. Sure. Except to know exactly how to hit the average every time, you’d have to know which answers are correct first. All of them.”

Ayano didn’t answer. Her fingers curled lightly at her sides.

Internally, she bristled.

His logic—it was flawed. If she’d been scoring straight zeroes, maybe he’d have a point. To get every question wrong, you’d have to know which answers are right, after all. But averages? It really could be a coincidence.

…Okay—fine. It wasn’t.

She had studied every revision sheet, observed the general patterns in the class’s performance, and calibrated her own accordingly. It wasn’t hard once you knew what to look for.

But she wasn’t going to admit that.

Still, she said nothing. Just tilted her head slightly, feigning cluelessness. 

“Of course,” he continued, voice silkier now, “if you wanted to be average so badly, there are easier ways than reverse-engineering your own scores.” He paused in front of her, gaze catching hers. Closer than a teacher should probably be.

“What are you so afraid of, Ayano?”

“I’m sorry,” she interjected, her tone flat, unbothered. “Is this what you called me in to talk about?”

Because frankly, she didn’t see why it mattered.

That made him pause. The smirk didn’t disappear entirely, but it dimmed around the edges.

”It seems like you’re under the impression that I’m doing this for no reason,” he sighed.

His voice dropped, just a little. “It’s simple. I want to see the best from my students.” No theatrics this time. No teasing lilt in his tone. Just genuine sincerity. “That’s all.”

It caught her off guard. For a moment, it almost sounded… earnest.

Too earnest.

Then he seemed to realise it too—how uncharacteristic he was being. He glanced away and gave a small shrug, his charming smile curling back into place.

“Well. That, and—” he added breezily, “it just feels good when someone succeeds because of me.”

He flashed her a wink, as if to smooth over the seriousness.

She remained silent.

He let out a breath, raising his hands in surrender. “But, alright, fine. Have it your way.” Then, more gently, “I don’t know why you’re holding back. But I know you are. Deep down, I know you know it too.”

She still didn’t respond. The words settled in the air between them like dust, undisturbed.

Then, just like that, the mood shifted.

Mido straightened and gave her a casual smile, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. “But hey, you’re already here, so might as well make yourself useful.”

He picked up a tall, neatly stacked bundle of papers and held them out to her. “Take these to the teacher in Class 3-2, will you?”

Ayano reached for the stack automatically—then hesitated.

3-2?

Her heart skipped a beat.

That was Taro’s class.

“…Okay,” she said, voice perfectly even.

If Mido-sensei noticed anything in her pause, he didn’t show it. Just gave her a wave as she turned to go.

“Good,” he said, almost offhandedly. “This is why you’re my favourite student.”

His tone was smooth. Almost sultry. Too smooth to be casual, too practiced to be accidental.

Ayano didn’t blink.

She assumed he said that to everyone. She turned to leave without so much as a reaction.

Emotionless. Silent. Not even a flicker of interest.

Mido watched her go, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“Careful, Ayano,” he called lightly after her. “It’s dangerous being so average. People might start looking closer.”

She didn’t answer. The door clicked shut behind her, and her footsteps faded into the hallway.

“…How cute,” he chuckled to himself, eyes still on the door. “She really doesn’t care about anything.”

And somehow, that only intrigued him more.

…

Ayano made her way up the stairs, the stack of papers pressed tightly against her chest.

Class 3-2.

Her footsteps were quiet, but her mind was far from it. Taro might be there. Or she might run into him on her way there.

Her pace faltered for a step.

Would he notice her? Should she say something if he did? What would she even say?

Hi? Too casual. Too plain.

Hello, Yamada-senpai? No, too stiff. Too formal.

She tried to picture it—him noticing her, remembering her, maybe smiling. Maybe not. She wasn’t sure which was worse. Her brain caught on that image for a little too long.

She sighed, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand. The stack of papers in her arms was tall—too tall. But it wasn’t heavy to her at all. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that it rose high enough to block half her field of vision, forcing her to crane her neck subtly just to see slightly ahead. It was bulky, awkward, a wall between her and the world.

And then—

She almost collided with someone.

Ayano stopped just in time, her foot twisting to the side, body dipping slightly as the papers tilted—she was getting a strange sense of deja vu—not again…

…But her reflexes kicked in just in time. Indeed, not again. Her grip tightened, her balance adjusted in a single, practiced motion. Nothing fell.

Crisis narrowly avoided.

She straightened and exhaled—

Only to freeze again.

White uniform.

Student council white.

No.

She looked up, already feeling that strange, cold tug in her chest.

And met Megamo’s eyes.

His gaze didn’t break.

Even worse than a student council member—the president himself. Great.

“Sorry,” she said curtly, stepping to the side.

But—

“Wait. Aishi.”

She halted. Turned, slowly.

“…I’ll carry that,” Megamo offered, eyes drifting to the stack in her arms. “It looks heavy.”

But it wasn’t. Not for her. Not even close. She carried it with the ease of someone used to quietly hauling more than she let on.

She blinked up at him.

Why?

Why would he offer to help?

She studied his face—the polite tilt of his head, the practiced poise in his voice—and realised. It wasn’t kindness. Obviously not.

He was observing her. Again. Reading her reactions, measuring her posture, listening to the precise beat of her steps like everything she did contained a clue.

Why did every interaction with him feel like a test she didn’t study for?

“No, thank you,” she said simply, voice even, unmoved.

And turned.

Her feet picked up speed without seeming rushed, papers still pressed neatly against her chest. Not flustered. Not hurried. Just… efficient.

Distance. That was the goal.

Behind her, Megamo remained still, but his gaze followed her.

He watched the way her back stayed straight. How her arms didn’t tremble under the weight of the bulky stack. How quickly she moved—without strain, without complaint.

For a girl who looked so quiet, so unassuming, so frail—

She was stronger than she let on.

Too strong.

Another calibration to make. Another piece falling exactly where it shouldn’t.

Meanwhile, Ayano continued down the hall, adjusting her arms around the teetering stack of papers. Then, just as she approached the classroom…

Her heart leapt when saw him.

Taro.

He was walking ahead, backlit by the hallway light, in casual conversation with another student—until he glanced up and noticed her.

Ayano panicked, her thoughts scrambling. Should she say something? Now? How?

But just as she opened her mouth—he spoke first.

“Oh—are you okay? That looks heavy. Let me help with that,” Taro said, already reaching forward.

Ayano froze.

Wait—what?

She stared for a second too long. Her mouth opened, then closed again. He was close now, his hand brushing the edge of the papers to steady them. Her heart pounded. She should say no. Should brush him off the way she had with Megamo just moments ago—quick, effortless, emotionless.

But this wasn’t Megamo.

This wasn’t just anyone.

“I—um, thank you,” she mumbled, shifting the weight and carefully handing him half the stack.

He took it easily, though his brow lifted slightly at the heft. “Wow, it’s heavier than it looks. You’re stronger than you seem.”

She laughed softly under her breath, but it sounded a bit more like a breathless exhale. “I guess.”

“So, where are you headed with all this?”

“Class 3-2.”

“Oh hey, that’s my class!” he said, pleasantly surprised. Then he glanced at her again, this time more intently. Slower. “Wait a second... I remember you.”

Ayano tensed.

“You’re… that one girl from the grocery store, right?” His brow furrowed as he tried to place her.

Her heart sank a little. That one girl. That was all she was to him. But then again, she should’ve known—

“Ayano, right?”

Her eyes lit up—literally. It was instant, the change in her expression. “I—yes, you’re right,” she said too quickly, cheeks flushing with pink. She stammered a little from nerves.

She couldn’t believe how happy she felt just from hearing him say her name.

He smiled, casual and kind. “I knew you looked familiar.”

They reached the classroom in companionable silence, stepping inside to drop off the papers. The teacher inside gave a distracted wave of thanks, and Taro set his stack down before turning back to Ayano.

They exited together, side by side.

This was it. Now was her chance. She could say something. Start a conversation. Try. She said she would—

“Nii-san! What are you—”

A voice cut through the moment, and Ayano's blood ran cold.

She turned.

Hanako was walking toward them, the picture of innocent surprise—up until his eyes landed on her.

The gleam that took over his gaze wasn’t cheerful. It wasn’t even human.

It was sharp. Icy. Possessive. Dangerous. Just like Nemesis.

Even worse, it cracked through the pleasant haze she'd just been in. Of course. Of course he would show up now. Way to ruin the mood.

Then, like flipping a switch, Hanako’s expression reset. He turned to Taro with that too-sweet smile.

“Hanako,” Taro greeted with a small wave. “You know Ayano? She’s—”

“No, we don’t know each other,” Ayano cut in, her voice sharp and immediate.

Both brothers looked at her.

There was no way—absolutely no way—Taro could find out they’d met at a gokon together. Not now. Not like this.

She didn’t wait for their confusion to catch up. “Sorry—I have to go,” she said quickly, already stepping back.

Her shoes squeaked slightly against the tile as she turned, walking away faster than she needed to.

She didn’t look back.

Not at Taro.

Not at Hanako.

Especially not him.

She could feel him watching her go.

And when she left, Hanako waited until his brother’s back was turned before following behind.

He wasn’t finished with her. 

…

Ayano turned the corner, the hallway stretching empty before her—silent, empty, still.

Good.

She needed a moment. Just a moment to gather herself. Her steps slowed as she drifted toward the end of the hall, the heels of her shoes echoing softly off the walls.

…What she’d just done was stupid, she realised.

Cutting off Taro like that. Letting herself get flustered. Her hand rose to her face, pressing against her temple. Did she actually let her emotions take over for a second? That wasn’t like her. That was dangerous.

Taro made her irrational.

Because even though she walked away, Hanako hadn’t. He could tell Taro anything—could say they met at a gokon, could twist the story however he wanted.

Stupid.

Her expression didn’t shift, but internally, she winced. Eyes squeezed shut. She inhaled deep and slow, steadying herself.

Every time. Every time the universe handed her a win, it ripped it away again.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t register the quiet footsteps behind her.

Until it was too late.

A presence.

A hand.

Pressure around her neck.

Her airway closed with a forceful grip—tight and unrelenting. Her body jolted, but her voice was choked off before it could even reach her throat.

Her eyes went wide, breath caught. Her legs kicked out instinctively, arms clawing at the figure holding her, nails scratching against fabric and skin. Her vision blurred.

She was taken off guard. Did she really let someone get that close—undetected? How could she let herself get so vulnerable?

But she wasn’t panicking. Not yet.

This person wasn’t trying to kill her. She knew the difference. Her mother had taught her well. How to choke someone out efficiently. How to cut off blood flow or air depending on the goal.

No. This pressure was deliberate. Measured. Painful, but not fatal.

Still—why?

Why here? Why now? In school, in uniform, where even the smallest slip-up could be seen?

Her gaze darted around. 

Empty halls. No cameras. No students.

No… How was the security this bad? 

“Looking for someone?”

The voice at her ear was low. Amused.

Hanako.

Not even Nemesis. He wasn’t even wearing his disguise. If he got caught, it would be truly all over for him. So—so why?

Her knees buckled slightly as he shifted his grip. Still tight enough to control her, still restricting—but not crushing. Just enough to hold, to remind her she was stuck.

“Trying to get close to him?” His voice rasped, venomous. “You think I don’t see through that pathetic little act?”

She stared at him, breath catching in her throat. What—?

He leaned in closer.

“You think I don’t know why you’re really chasing after him? After my brother? You think if you stick close to him, you’ll figure me out. Expose me.”

Her eyes widened slightly.

So that was it.

It all circled back to his identity again.

He was paranoid.

But he was wrong.

This wasn’t about him. It had never been about him.

She struggled, forcing the words out, strained and cracked, even as he continued to strangle her. “That’s… not… it…”

But he wasn’t listening. All he could notice was the way Ayano’s eyes continued to flick around. Searching for a way out. Anything.

“There’s no one here,” he muttered. “What, are you hoping your little bodyguard shows up again? He’s not going to help you this time.”

Her throat burned.

His grip wasn’t as tight now, but it kept her still, kept her silenced. Her hands clenched at his wrists. Her body trembled, but not from fear.

She didn’t understand. What did he want? What was he trying to prove?

Her voice rasped out, barely more than a breath, “Why are you doing this…?”

For a second, he didn’t answer.

Then—

“Why?” His voice was scarily soft. “It’s simple.”

His breath brushed the edge of her ear as he leaned in closer.

“Because you’re mine.”

She froze.

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

She shifted her weight, subtly angling her body, forcing a sliver of space between them. Her hand clawed downward, fumbling through the side of her bag without looking—every motion rehearsed. She knew exactly where it was.
Tucked behind her wallet.

The pepper spray her cafe manager had given her.

Her fingers closed around the canister.

Click.

She didn’t aim. Didn’t think. She couldn’t afford to miss—but she couldn’t risk looking, either. Just turned her wrist and sprayed wildly behind her. A fine mist burst into the air. A frantic, scattering cloud in every direction—too wide, too shallow.

The chemicals surged instantly, the air turning sharp and bitter.

She missed.

Mostly.

But some of it hit—enough to matter.

“—Aah, fuck," he hissed.

He staggered back, instinctively coughing, one arm flying up to shield his face as the lingering mist burned into his eyes and sinuses. His grip loosened. Ayano wrenched herself free, stumbling forward, gasping. Her own lungs caught fire as she inhaled the sting—vision blurring, throat closing.

But he wasn’t down. Not yet.

In the blink it took her to catch her breath, Hanako persisted.

He grabbed her throat again, slamming her wrist against the wall, sending the canister skittering across the tile. He gritted his teeth through the burn, his eyes still focused, somehow.

…What a fucking psycho.

“Tch. Always prepared, huh?” he rasped, voice thick with pain and adrenaline. “That was cute.”

Then suddenly, the air shifted.

Footsteps.

Distant, but getting closer.

He noticed.

He always noticed.

The pressure around her throat vanished.

She folded forward, coughing as air finally rushed back into her lungs. Her knees buckled, and she stumbled against the wall, one hand bracing herself as the other pressed shakily to her throat.

It stung.

Her vision swam. Her breath came in uneven gasps, every inhale a stab of pain through her chest.

And when she looked up—

He was already gone.

Down the opposite stairwell.

Silent. Effortless. Like smoke. Like shadow. 

Like he’d never been there at all.

Ayano didn’t waste time.

She turned on her heel and moved quickly—toward the sound of footsteps from the other end of the hall. Toward people. Toward safety.

But just as she reached the end of the hall, she stopped short.

There, just rounding the corner, was Megamo Saikou.

He halted mid-step when he saw her.

They both froze.

His sharp gaze swept over her in a second. The quick rise and fall of her chest. The slight sway to her stance. 

…And then—his eyes landed on her neck. 

His breath slowed.

A bruised, red imprint crept jarringly along the pale skin of it, and his eyes widened—just barely.

Ayano looked away instantly.

She turned her face down, her hair falling forward to shield the side of her neck. Her shoulders stiffened, lips pressing into a thin line.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t explain.

Didn’t offer a single excuse.

She just—walked past him.

And Megamo stood there.

Silent.

Watching her go.

Megamo’s hand curled loosely at his side, the edge of his sleeve brushing his wrist. He stared down the hallway she’d disappeared into, his jaw tight, something simmering just beneath the surface.

Confusion.

Frustration.

Guilt?

Something didn’t add up.

And for the first time—he wasn’t so sure he wanted it to.

Chapter Text

Ayano descended the stairwell one shaky step at a time, her fingers grazing the cold railing before she braced herself against the wall instead.

She took in a breath, then another. Too fast. Too shallow. Her chest felt tight. Her lungs couldn’t seem to catch up. Her knees threatened to buckle.

But most of all, her neck stung.

She raised a hand to touch it—just lightly—but even that made her flinch. A sharp, searing pulse shot down her throat. Her fingers came away trembling.

Not good. Not good at all.

Something like this—being choked out—it shouldn’t be enough to affect her like this. Not usually. Not her. She could handle worse without batting an eye. She knew how to fall, how to fake it, how to endure pain and move on like it never happened. She could keep walking with twisted ankles, bruised ribs. But now—

Now even standing felt like too much.

Now, her body was behaving like it belonged to someone else.

It wasn’t just what happened today. It was everything. The days bleeding into each other. The continuous nights of getting barely any sleep were finally catching up to her. 

Hard.

As for Hanako—he hadn’t even meant to kill her. He’d had the opportunity. The strength. The opening. But Ayano could tell there had been no killing intent. Not really. Just pressure. A warning.

He hadn’t meant to end her life then and there. Only to squeeze the oxygen from her body.

And he did exactly that. Far too well.

She could feel her mind spiraling, and she tried to shove it down, to compartmentalise, but it only amplified the pounding in her skull. The world swam at the edges, and her balance wavered.

The stairwell tilted sideways for a second—or maybe she did. It was hard to tell. 

Her head felt weightless and heavy all at once. She blinked slowly, trying to anchor herself, but even the act of keeping her eyes open made her nauseous. The pressure behind her temples was pulsing now, matching the rapid thud of her heart.

This was stupid. She’d been pushing herself too hard lately.

Too many fronts. Too many facades. Osana, the clubs, the cafe shifts, her grades, the boys she kept at arm’s length, the enemies she had to keep in sight… Taro. Every day, another mask. Another plan. Another defensive maneuver. Another careful lie to maintain.

It was becoming a routine. Again, she hadn’t gotten any real sleep last night. Not after the cat rescue. She’d spent half the night staring at the ceiling, mind racing. Rehearsing what she would say to Osana. How to act. What to reveal. What to withhold. Turning every word over and over until it stopped sounding like anything at all.

She had told herself she could push through it. 

Just one more restless night. One more school day.

But she hadn’t realised how close to the edge she already was. And now her body was betraying her. Every muscle trembled under its own weight, ready to give out at any moment.

Like someone had been chipping away at her little by little—and that chokehold Hanako put her in had simply been the last straw. 

Death by a thousand cuts. She should’ve noticed sooner.

She hadn’t even completely processed it all yet. One moment she was blissfully speaking to Taro, then she was walking away, then the hands—tight, cruel, familiar in a way that made her lightheaded—and now—

Now she was here.

And Megamo Saikou had seen her.

Worse: he saw her like this. Unbalanced. Wounded. Exposed. She didn’t even want to imagine what kind of paranoid conspiracies he was cooking up.

Because in his mind, he was probably already deciding who to blame.

…And how much of it she’d brought on herself.

But her mind couldn’t even latch onto that thought fully. 

She just needed to move. 

Forward. 

Away. 

Somewhere—anywhere—out of sight.

She needed to get to the infirmary.

Yes, that was it. Just make it there. Hold on a little longer. Don’t collapse yet, Ayano.

But as she walked down the hall, making her way to the nurse’s office, she heard it—the steady rhythm of footsteps behind her. Not rushed, not aggressive. But deliberate. Steady. Annoyingly persistent. 

She didn’t need to look to know it was him.

“Aishi.” 

She’d left Megamo behind seconds ago, walking off without a word. She hadn’t looked back. Hadn’t slowed down. She’d thought that would be the end of it.

But of course it wasn’t.

Because Megamo Saikou wasn’t the type to let things go.

Her pace didn’t change. It couldn’t. Her body was already at its limit. But she kept walking nevertheless. She kept her head down, eyes fixed on the ground, trying to pretend she didn’t hear him—trying to pretend she couldn’t feel his gaze burning into her back.

“Aishi,” Megamo called out again, louder now. Closer.

She didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look back. “Not now, Saikou,” she managed, even as her head spun, her vision blurred, and her feet staggered.

Not now, not ever.

He caught up, matching her pace. “You’re injured.”

She kept her eyes on the floor. “I’m fine.”

“No, you aren’t,” Megamo pressed. “Stop pretending.”

She tried to keep walking away, but then—

But then his hand gripped her wrist.

The grip wasn’t rough. But it was decisive.

Her head snapped slightly toward him, and there he was—eyes narrowed, gaze burning with something unreadable. 

“Let go,” she demanded.

At her words, his fingers released her immediately, hand retreating back to his side like he’d been burned. But he didn’t look away.

“What happened to you?” he asked carefully.

She blinked slowly, swaying just slightly where she stood.

“I… I don’t have time for this.” Her voice came out flat, almost detached, as it always was—but there was a slight hitch to it. A hesitation, like she was barely willing the words into existence. Like even speaking took effort. Her breath caught at the end, faint and uneven, betraying the dizziness clouding her head.

Time was slipping through her fingers. She barely had the time to stay standing.

“That’s not an answer,” he demanded. “Don’t act like this is nothing. It’s not. Look at yourself. You’re barely upright.”

She tried to turn away, but the moment she moved, his eyes caught the bruise just beneath her collar once more.

The fingerprint shape of it.

He looked at her, truly looked—and something inside him shifted. 

“…Who did this to you?”

Her gaze dropped to the floor. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

She sighed. What a joke.

Her hand lifted instinctively, moving to cover her neck. As if that could erase it. As if that could make it untrue. 

But before she could, he caught her wrist again, gently. He didn’t yank it away. He just held her wrist, steadying it, steadying her. Stopping her from hiding.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he pulled her hand back and took a proper look. A better, closer one.

Not to accuse. 

Just to be sure. 

Just to confirm.

And for a moment, there was a quiet, simmering calculation in his expression—like he was studying every crevice of the mark, burning it into memory. 

The silence between them stretched so long she thought it might swallow her.

“…Answer me, Aishi.” he continued, voice barely above a whisper. “Who did it?”

Her gaze flicked up to his, unimpressed. As if he’d believe her if she told him.

As if she’d hand him that kind of truth.

He asked like he deserved an explanation. And maybe he did, but that didn’t mean he’d get one. Since when did he care about explanations?

“Whatever theory you’re spinning, save it.” Her tone was cold. Quiet. Dismissive. 

And for some reason, it hit him harder than he expected. 

“Theory?” he echoed, incredulous. “That’s—“

Suddenly, a new voice, familiar and wary, echoed from behind.

“Ayano?”

She stopped.

Even dazed, even fading, she knew that voice.

Budo.

His voice had been uncertain at first. Light, almost casual, as he rounded the corner and saw her.

But then he saw him. Standing too close. Holding her.

Ayano barely registered the sudden shift in atmosphere. The tension in the air. But Budo did. He took it all in within a heartbeat—eyes darting from the uneven rasp in her breathing to Megamo’s hand wrapped around her wrist.

Budo froze—just for a split second. Then his expression hardened.

“Ayano, you—” he began, his voice clipped, unsure how to even phrase it. “What’s going on?”

Megamo didn’t respond. He didn’t feel the need to. His grip on Ayano’s wrist loosened, but not quickly enough.

Budo’s gaze dropped to her neck—and Ayano could see it in his face. The exact moment he saw the bruise. The flicker of surprise. The sudden tension in his shoulders. The sharp inhale. 

And then: anger?

It was hard to miss. His jaw tightened, and his fists clenched at his sides like it took everything in him not to throw one.

“You,” he muttered under his breath, stepping forward. “What the hell did you do to her?”

Megamo bristled. “Watch your mouth.”

“Don’t deflect,” Budo snapped. “I see her neck.”

“I didn’t do that.”

“You think I’ll just take your word for it?” Budo turned to her, gentler now. “Ayano, did he hurt you? Tell me. Did he…?”

Ayano tried to interject. “It’s not—” Her voice caught, breath hitching.

Throb. 

A heavy pulse suddenly echoed through her skull.

Her head pounded.

She tried to speak—tried to tell them to stop, to explain. But… she couldn’t. When she opened her mouth, nothing came out. Her throat, her lungs—nothing was cooperating, and her thoughts were slipping through her fingers like sand. 

A high-pitched ringing built up in her ears, drowning everything else out. 

The dizziness was getting worse.

Great.

She didn’t have time for this.

Infirmary. She had to get to the infirmary. Now. Just a little further—

“…Ayano?” Budo’s voice softened. “Hey. Hey, stay with me. You’re okay. Look at me.”

She tried.

Tried to meet his gaze.

“Ayano…?”

Tried to say something.

“…Ayan…—“

But the moment their eyes locked, her vision fractured—splintering into black spots that danced and pulsed and grew—

She hated this—not the pain, not the chaos—but the attention. The exposure. Eyes on her. She hadn’t planned for this.

How careless.

…And then, everything went dark.

Her knees buckled again and this time—this time her body tilted too far to catch herself.

“Aishi—!”

Megamo moved—

But Budo was faster.

He stepped forward, catching her just before she hit the ground. One arm behind her back, the other supporting her legs as he held her against his chest.

“Don’t touch her,” Budo said without looking up, his voice low and firm.

Megamo took a step forward.

“I said don’t.”

Megamo exhaled slowly, jaw tight. He knew how it looked. Knew exactly what Budo was assuming—and how wrong he was. But explaining wouldn’t matter. Not right now. Not to him.

“She needs help,” Megamo said coolly. “Let me take her.”

“No.” Budo tightened his hold on her. “I’ve got her. Back off.”

Megamo hovered, frustration etched on his face. “She needs to get to the nurse.”

Budo nodded, lifting her with surprising care. “I know. I’m going.”

The smell reached Ayano before her vision did.

A sharp, sterile tang—disinfectant, rubbing alcohol, faint traces of iodine and something floral, artificial. The unmistakable scent of medical equipment and over-cleaned spaces.

She stirred.

Her eyelids felt like they were stuck together. But when she finally blinked them open, the sudden exposure to light sent a dull ache through her skull. It took a moment for her eyes to focus. White sheets. Pale white curtains. A metal cabinet.

She was in the infirmary.

Ayano blinked again. Her whole body felt heavy, like she’d just surfaced from deep underwater. 

By the far wall, Mujo was stacking medicine bottles on a shelf—clumsily. A bottle nearly tipped as he shifted another into place. He turned, and the second he saw her eyes open, his expression brightened.

His whole body perked up like a puppy when its owner arrives home.

“Ayano!” he gasped, half stumbling over his own feet as he rushed to her bedside. “You’re awake. I was so worried about you.”

“…Why am I here…?” she began, her voice hoarse, but the moment she tried to sit up, the memories surged back. Right… that wasn’t quite the right question. “Actually, how…?” 

Mujo answered before she could finish. “Your friend from the martial arts club carried you here,” he said gently.

“He did?” 

Mujo nodded.

Hm. She’d have to thank Budo later.

Ayano shifted, pushing herself upright, only to feel a cool, damp cloth slip off her forehead and drop onto her lap. She looked down at it, blinking.

“Oh, careful,” Mujo said quickly, moving to steady her by the shoulder. His hands were warm. “I checked your temperature… You had a fever. You’re still a little flushed. Have you been overexerting yourself lately?”

There was no accusation in his voice. Just concern. The kind of concern that made her chest feel tight for a completely different reason.

Because she wasn’t used to it.

And Mujo simply added, voice a little softer, “Most importantly, your neck…? What happened?”

He didn’t necessarily prod her for answers. He didn’t push. He just looked at her with that familiar sincerity he always did.

Ayano looked away.

“I’m fine,” she said, because it was all she knew to say.

Mujo had heard those words before. Too many times. She used to say them all the time when they were kids, even when she clearly wasn’t fine.

Some things, it seemed, hadn’t changed.

“You’re not,” he replied. He knew. Still, he didn’t press her.

She didn’t respond to that. Instead, she picked up the cloth from her lap—intending to toss it back onto the bedside tray—but then her fingers paused.

She turned it over.

White. Soft cotton. Cleanly pressed.

Embroidered in the corner, faint but unmistakable:

AA.

Her gaze sharpened. That stitchwork. She would recognise it anywhere. Precise, controlled. The same stitching she’d seen throughout her childhood. 

Her mother’s embroidery.

“Mujo?” she asked slowly, turning the cloth in her hands. “This handkerchief… where did you get it?”

He blinked, caught off-guard by her tone. “Oh, that? Your friend insisted we put it on your forehead while you rested.” He offered her a smile. “He was quite nice, actually. Waited a while to make sure you were stable. Gave me that before he left.”

Ayano stared down at the cloth, its fabric cool between her fingers.

Budo had this?

Her mother’s handkerchief. With her initials.

…What in the world was Budo doing with something like that?

“I see.” She nodded, then idly touched her throat with a wince. The stiffness in her neck hadn’t gone away.

Noticing, Mujo glanced down at the kit he’d set on the counter. “Do you want me to bandage it?” he asked. “I didn’t earlier. Was hard to do while you were lying flat.”

Ayano paused. Bandages. And on her neck of all places? That would stand out. Too noticeable, too visible. It would only draw questions—draw in attention she didn’t need.

“It’s fine. Just leave it,” she muttered. “…Do you think it’ll welt?”

Mujo hesitated, then nodded. “A little. It’s… pretty bad. But it’ll go away in time. And with rest.” He studied her face. “You should really take it easy.”

She swung her legs off the bed and stood up, slower this time, but still far too fast for someone who’d just blacked out. “I said it’s fine,” she repeated, brushing off his concern like it was dust on her sleeve.

Mujo frowned, unconvinced. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve had worse.”

He didn’t argue. He rarely did, not when she got like this. But he didn’t look any less worried.

“…How long have I been here?” she asked instead, adjusting her collar instinctively.

Mujo checked the time on his phone. “Well, lunchtime ended a while ago. It’s about halfway through class now.”

She grabbed her bag from the chair nearby. “Thanks. I’ll get going.”

“Wait—Ayano.” 

She paused at the door.

“If it gets worse, come back. Don’t push yourself so hard, alright?” He hesitated, then added, “You don’t have to do everything alone.”

She turned to glance at him. The sincerity in his voice tugged at something. There was a warm familiarity to it. That same quiet protectiveness from when they were kids and she’d either scraped her knee, jarred her finger, or had a nose bleed, pretending it didn’t hurt. He’d always hover nearby anyway, patching her up when no one else did.

Ayano found herself smiling faintly—for what felt like the first time in forever. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Then she turned and left.

Mujo watched the door swing shut behind her, sighing softly.

“Anytime,” he murmured, even though she was already gone.

Ayano stepped out of the infirmary, the door clicking shut behind her. But she didn’t turn toward class.

No. Absolutely not.

The last thing she needed was to walk in halfway through the period, faces swiveling, whispers echoing the moment they caught the bruising around her neck. That was top ten ways to draw attention—not exactly her goal this year. Or ever.

Instead, she cut down the hall, ducking into the nearest bathroom without a second thought.

Not because she was dying to piss or anything. She just needed a breather. Somewhere quiet.

Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. She stepped up to the sink and stared into the mirror.

There she was. Same deadpan face. Same tired eyes.

But not exactly the same.

Her gaze dropped to the angry mark blooming on her neck—red and violet, raw and unignorable. It looked even worse than she thought. Her fingers drifted up on instinct, brushing against the skin, and she flinched again. 

…Why did she keep on touching it even when she knew it would sting?

She let out a shaky sigh and pulled out her phone, the screen lighting up as she checked the time. Still plenty of class time left. Fine. She’d just wait it out here. Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty. However long it took for the classrooms and hallways to clear.

But more pressing than that…

Her thoughts drifted back. To Nemesis. Or rather—Hanako.

She hadn’t expected him to go for her like that. Not in school. Not out in the open. Not without the mystery and shadows of his usual disguise.

And that was why it worked. Because she hadn’t expected it.

But—that changed things. It meant there were no rules now. No boundaries. No more warning shots. If he could strike in broad daylight with students milling around and teachers nearby, then she couldn’t rely on school being safe territory anymore. She was on his radar now—and this time, he was making it known.

So then.

What to do about it?

She was done preparing. Done waiting. Done reacting. 

Done with simply defending herself.

It was time to act.

Ayano scrolled through her contacts, finger pausing on a name she usually kept in reserve.

Info-kun.

She tapped.

Ayano typed the message briskly, her thumbs barely hesitating before she hit send.

“I need information on Hanako.”

Clear, concise. Straight to the point. Shouldn’t be too hard, right? Info-kun had always been fast, always one step ahead. 

If anyone knew something, it was him. He had to.

The reply came immediately.

“Hanako Yamada, the new student?”

Ayano narrowed her eyes. Yes. That Hanako.

“Taro’s younger brother? Hm. That makes sense.”

She waited. Stared at the screen for a long moment. But there was no follow up message.

“…So?”

“What?”
“Did you think I was going to keep giving out favours for free?”

She sighed, fingers tapping the edge of her phone. Of course.

“Congratulations on eliminating Osana, by the way. How was the free trial?”

Free trial? Eliminate? Did he always have to put it like that? She hadn’t even done anything to Osana directly. Not really. Just nudged things along. Created the right circumstances. Opened the right doors.

Not her fault Osana walked through them.

Still… hearing it phrased like that—especially now—rubbed her the wrong way.

Another buzz.

"That is, if Taro still matters to you."
"Does he?"

Her thumbs hovered over the screen. What kind of stupid question was that?

"Because from where I’m sitting, it’s getting hard to tell."

"What are you talking about?”

"You’ve been all over the place.”

Another text. And another. Faster now.

“You practically go to the cooking club every day.”
“Putting Amao’s apron on for him? You might as well marry him if you’re gonna keep playing house."

He wasn’t done.

"Then there’s Osano. Aso. Oko. Kizano. Osoro. Budo. Even Megamo.”

He paused, just long enough to twist the knife.

“And I saw Budo carrying you to the infirmary, by the way. Very princely. Romantic, even."

Each message came more and more sharp. Less filtered than usual. It wasn’t subtle anymore. Not even close.

"So unless your plan is to win Taro over by dating everyone else, I’d appreciate some clarity."
"And if you’re changing targets, I suggest you clarify. I tailor information to purpose."
“Don’t waste my time.”

She blinked at the screen, confused.

Where was this coming from?

…Why did he sound mad?

She hadn’t done anything wrong. Hadn’t deviated. So what the hell was this about?

“Nothing’s changed.”
“If you’re spending this much time watching my social interactions, maybe you’re the one who’s lost track of what actually matters.”
“You didn’t even see what really happened earlier, did you?”

No reply.

Of course.

He only noticed the petty stuff. Every accidental brush of a sleeve. Every awkward exchange between her and someone else. But the one time she actually needed him to see something—he missed it.

Because Hanako had chosen a blind spot to attack. Of course he had.

Ayano could practically picture it now—Info-kun watching the aftermath, watching Budo and Megamo argue as she collapsed.

And what conclusions had he jumped to?

Apparently: that she’d gone soft. That she was distracted. That she’d strayed.

A new message buzzed in.

“…What happened to your neck?”

Ah. 

So he had seen the bruise.

But not the hands that caused it. Way to be useful. Ayano stared at screen for a second. Then typed:

“It doesn't matter.”
“None of it does.”
"So you can stop wasting your time tracking every person I speak to like it’s some grand betrayal."

It was ridiculous. The way he danced around her, baited her, accused her of wasting time—when he was the one who refused to say anything directly. Always hiding behind vague phrasing and offhand remarks, like he wanted her to guess what he was thinking.

She’d always assumed he didn’t care. That he was above that.

But lately…

Lately, it felt like he was watching her too closely. Like her movements somehow mattered more than the outcome.

She didn’t get it. She hadn’t strayed from her goal. If anything, she’d been more careful. Tired, sure. Stretched thin, yes. But focused.

So why did it feel like he was punishing her for something she didn’t understand?

But she knew better than to expect sympathy from him.

“Information is all I need.”
“Just tell me what you want.”
“Panty shots?”

Ayano sent it flatly, more out of irritation than anything else. A jab. A callback to his usual twisted barter system.

She expected a smirk of a response. Some smug: glad you remember how this works.

And sure enough, seconds later—

“That works.”

She stared at the reply, unmoving.

Panty shots. Of girls.

That was how Info-kun operated. Quiet. Creepily effective. Transactional. He didn’t care who he was exploiting, only that it made a profit.

But Ayano… couldn’t. Couldn’t bring herself to follow someone around just to get a blurry shot up their skirt.

So…

Wasn’t there only one logical solution in this situation?

“I’m not taking pictures of other girls.”
“I’ll send mine.”

…A very long pause followed.

Weird.

Info-kun almost always replied instantly—no matter how strange, abrupt, or wildly straightforward her messages were. In fact, he was usually faster the more depraved the topic.

Then the typing bubbles appeared.

She watched the bubble flicker. Pause. Start again. Disappear again. Then—

“Yours?”

Another pause.

“As in.”
“Your own?”

Ayano didn’t reply. What was he confused about? She’d been very clear.

Another flood came in.

“That won’t be necessary.”
“Well.”
“It’s not that I don’t want them.”
“Or that I do.”

…Wow. 

A panty shot was a panty shot. What was the issue?

“Look, just don’t do that.”
“Forget the deal. I’ll send the file.”
“Just. Don’t send anything.”

She blinked. He’d been sharp just a second ago—irritated, even. And now? After all that talk from him, it almost felt like he was unravelling. 

Which was strange.

Info-kun wasn’t one to unravel.

It was just underwear. He’d taken hundreds of shots like that from other girls, hadn’t he?

What made this different?

Well, she wasn’t going to argue. She’d somehow managed to get an even better outcome. Somehow.

“So I get an extension on my free trial?”

“Don’t push it.”

When the file came through, she skimmed the profile. Hanako Yamada, class 1-2.

To sum it up, there was nothing useful. No dirt. But one thing stood out.

Self-defense skill: Very weak.

She scoffed quietly. That? Definitely not.

“You might want to update his profile.”

“I’m rarely ever wrong.”
“Which part?”

Ayano didn’t reply.

“Ayano. Which part?”

She still didn't reply. Maybe she was being petty, but the file hadn’t been helpful at all. It was just basic information. A general student profile. He was definitely holding out on her. He didn’t deserve a reply.

She turned her phone off and slipped it into her pocket, leaving Info-kun’s last message on read.

Then she looked back at the mirror. Her neck really did look bad. Way worse than she’d expected.

Maybe she should’ve let Mujo bandage her up after all. She thought leaving it bare might be less conspicuous. Now? She didn’t want anyone else seeing her like this.

She sighed. What should she do?

Before she could decide, the bathroom door creaked open.

Footsteps clicked softly against the tile. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just careless in the way only someone confident—entitled—could be.

Then, the scent of a strong perfume hit her nose—a choking cloud of artificial florals potent enough to gas an entire village.

Ayano didn’t look up. She didn’t need to.

Musume Ronshaku walked past without so much as a glance in Ayano’s direction. She stopped at the sink beside her, set down a quilted designer clutch, and popped open her compact with one manicured hand.

She leaned in close to the mirror, inspecting her eyeliner, not even glancing to the side. Not even pretending to notice Ayano standing inches away.

To her, Ayano wasn’t worth noticing.

Not interesting.

Not popular.

Not relevant.

She adjusted her lip liner, blotted her mouth with a tissue, then examined her reflection with a bored, half-lidded look. No words exchanged. Not a glance spared. Ayano might as well have been part of the wall.

That was Musume’s power—she didn’t need to say anything to make you feel small.

She just had to act like you weren’t even there.

Ayano didn’t flinch. She didn’t care, not really. 

But one thing caught her eye.

Her gaze dropped to the pouch Musume had set down, still unzipped. Sleek. Embossed. Expensive. And packed with exactly what Ayano needed.

Makeup.

Ayano turned slightly, voice flat.

“Can I borrow that?”

Musume paused, like she hadn’t heard right. Her eyes slid toward Ayano—slowly. A glance that could cut glass.

Then came the laugh. Short, sharp, with just the right amount of practiced mockery sprinkled in. “Excuse me? You’re joking, right?” 

Realising Ayano was dead serious, she turned to face her fully now, one hand resting lazily on her hip, the other clutching her pouch protectively. 

“Do I look like a fucking donation box to you?” she sneered. “Go buy your own. Or, like, ask one of your friends. If you even have any.”

She turned back to the mirror like the whole exchange hadn’t even happened, pulling a mascara wand from the pouch with a huff.

But Ayano caught a subtle tell—Musume’s fingers tapping against the counter. She was agitated about something else.

Restless about something.

Then came the confession.

“…God, I need a smoke,” she muttered idly to herself as she dragged the wand through her lashes, dragging out the vowels. The words slipped out like a habit. Like an itch she hadn’t scratched in a while. “This school is literally killing me.”

Ayano’s voice came out flat. “I can get you a pack.”

Musume froze for half a second—then burst into laughter.

“You?” she scoffed, spinning halfway toward her again. “You actually expect me to believe that you can get me a pack of ciggies?”

She looked her up and down, like Ayano was a living joke. “That’s cute.”

Ayano didn’t blink.

“I’ll give them to you after class. Just let me borrow your makeup.”

A long moment passed.

…Then, with an exaggerated sigh and an eye roll so hard it could’ve dislocated something, Musume snapped the pouch shut and tossed it at Ayano’s chest.

“Fine. Whatever. Keep it. You clearly need it more than I do.” Her gaze flicked to Ayano’s bare face—plain, untouched—and curled into a smirk. “Seriously. Like, you’d totally be doing the world a favour.”

Ayano caught the bag without comment.

Musume leaned in close again, her voice sweet and venomous.

“But just so you know… if you’re lying to me?” She smiled without warmth. “I totally can—and will—ruin your life.”

“…Thanks.”

When Musume finally strutted out of the bathroom, Ayano let out a quiet breath and opened the pouch.

Time to fix her neck.

She pulled out a palette—then stared blankly.

Why were there so many colours?

It looked like someone had melted a crayon box and charged eighty dollars for it. Was this makeup or an art class? Why did she need to know colour theory just to cover a bruise?

She stared at her neck in the mirror. Red. Right. That meant… green?

Green cancelled out red. Like Christmas. Or traffic lights.

She dabbed her finger into a suspiciously swamp-coloured cream and tapped it on her neck, suppressing a wince. It burned, but she kept going.

…It immediately looked worse.

Now she just had a green bruise. Like she’d been strangled by a leprechaun.

Still, she’d already gone this far. 

She grabbed the foundation next, popped open the lid, and paused.

Tan.

Of course. Musume was the colour of a beach vacation. Ayano was the colour of printer paper.

She applied it anyway.

The result was horrific.

A red bruise, covered in Shrek green, topped with a warm golden foundation that sat on her skin like peanut butter on chalk.

She patted it in, trying to blend. The bruise still peeked through. The foundation was clearly not her shade. And on top of that, the whole patch stung like hell.

Ayano stared at herself in the mirror.

It looked like someone tried to cover a hickey with craft paint.

“…Better than before,” she muttered, as if trying to convince herself.

It was not.

But it was fine. It didn’t have to look good. It just had to look less like she’d just gotten choked in the middle of the school hallway.

But then, as she continued rummaging through the pouch—past the glittery highlighters, overpriced lip glosses, and something that resembled a tiny beauty blender in the shape of a heart—she found it.

Concealer.

Smaller. Way, way lighter. Probably Musume’s ‘brightening’ concealer or whatever.

Ayano held it up to her face.

Pale. Neutral. Borderline ghostly.

Perfect shade match.

She dabbed it over the disaster on her neck. The red. The green. The brown. She patted it in, and—

Immediately, it looked better. Actually better. She blinked. Then nodded once at her reflection.

Maybe next she’d start contouring.

She closed the pouch and put it in her bag.

As if.

Alright. Next course of action. She unlocked her phone and reopened Info-kun’s chat. Guess she wasn’t leaving him on read after all.

Not when she needed something.

“His self-defense information is wrong.”

There. An answer. A breadcrumb. Something for him to chew on.

She didn’t wait for his response before typing again.

“I need a pack of cigarettes.”

A second passed.

“Interesting segue.”
“You know, most people ease into using me.”
“You just skip the foreplay entirely.”

She blinked. Mildly annoyed.

He was always dramatic about being used—as if he hadn’t literally invited it. Use me, Ayano, he’d said. Like a dare. Like a challenge. And now he was whining when she actually did?

Still, he responded fast, like always.

“I have them. But I’m not doing any more charity.”
“I want something in return. No panty shots. I have alternative payment methods.”

“Such as?”

“Plant a listening device in the faculty room. Do that, and the cigarettes are yours.”

She stared at the screen.

A bug in the faculty room. Classic.

Fine. It was simple enough.

Ayano checked the time.

Still fifteen minutes before class ended. Perfect.

First: the device.

She made her way out of the bathroom and to the forgotten end of the third floor—where the windows were always fogged, and the dust never seemed to settle. The door to the information club was shut, as it always was. No one used this room. No one except him.

Outside the door, on the floor, sat a small plastic case.

Plain. Unlabeled.

Waiting. Like it had just been placed there—like it had been waiting for her all along.

She crouched and picked it up.

Now: the job.

Most teachers would still be in their classrooms—locked into lectures, heads down over lesson plans, distracted. The faculty room should be empty. It was the ideal time.

She moved quickly, her steps light, unhurried. The halls were quiet, interrupted only by the occasional murmur from behind closed doors. Her fingers grazed the listening device now tucked into her pocket—small, sleek, unremarkable. It would vanish behind the cables near the printer.

The door to the faculty room creaked open. She slipped inside.

Empty. Just like she expected. A few bags slouched on chairs. A half-drunk cup of coffee sat steaming on a desk by the back window. The only sound was the steady hum of the printer, blinking lazily in standby.

She crouched, reached behind the machine, and slid the bug into place in one fluid motion.

Easy.

Almost too easy.

She stood, adjusted her skirt, turned to leave—

And stopped short.

Someone was there. A teacher. But not just any teacher.

Leaning casually against the doorframe, tall and broad-shouldered, shirt half buttoned and exposing a distracting amount of his chest, with a tailored coat that clung to him like it had been made for someone who’d never heard of dress codes. Yep, outfit checked out.

Mido-sensei.

Just her luck. 

What was he doing here all of a sudden? The universe really had a cruel sense of humour. 

He stood just outside the door, watching her with mild curiosity, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who’d just caught her red-handed.

“Aishi,” he said, head tilted to the side. “You’re not in class.”

Neither are you, she almost replied.

Instead, she kept her tone even. “…I wasn’t feeling well, so I went to the infirmary. And then the student nurse asked me to deliver some papers here on the way back to class.”

Sorry, Mujo. He wouldn’t mind being her alibi for a moment. Probably.

It was a flimsy excuse. She knew it. But it was all she had.

Mido glanced at her empty hands.

“Mm. That so?”

He didn’t sound convinced. But he didn’t sound like he particularly cared, either.

“Well,” he said, pushing off the doorframe with a casual stretch of his arms, “this actually works out nicely. I needed to talk to you again about your grades.”

He circled her, just a step too close, eyes half-lidded with that same casual expression he always wore.

“You’re a terrible liar, by the way,” he added, almost fond. “But I’ll let it slide.”

A pause. His tone shifted—still warm, but edged now with something firmer.

“...On one condition.”

She raised an eyebrow.

He didn’t miss a second. “Stop hiding what you’re capable of.”

She narrowed her eyes. Not this again.

He smiled at that. “Don’t look at me like that, Ayano. You know I’m right.”

”What are you trying to say?”

“I’ll turn a blind eye to why you’re here—completely unsupervised—in the faculty room,” he repeated, his voice just above a whisper now, low and close enough that she felt the words more than heard them. “As long as you promise to stop wasting your potential.”

Ayano didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

He smiled again. Slower this time. Sharper around the edges.

“Impress me,” he said. “Make me proud. I know you can.”

She kept her face neutral. Unreadable. “Again, I’m not sure what you mean—”

“Don’t give me that,” he cut in smoothly, still wearing that irritatingly confident smile. “We both know you know exactly what I mean.”

His tone turned casual, but only just.

“Unless, of course, you’d prefer a visit to the guidance counsellor? I imagine she’d have plenty of thoughts about you sneaking around the faculty room like this. Very suspicious.”

Oh. 

He never actually cared why she was here in the first place. He was just using the fact that he caught her as leverage. 

…But why go to this extent?

Why did he seem to believe in her more than she did herself?

And the guidance counsellor? No. That was the last thing she needed. More attention. More eyes. More reasons for people to remember her name.

She exhaled softly through her nose.

She didn’t want to. She didn’t owe him anything. But he wasn’t exactly wrong. And worse—it didn’t seem like he was going to let up about this topic any time soon.

There was only so much ignorance she could feign.

“…Fine,” she said at last. “I’ll stop holding back.” 

There. Happy now?

It wasn’t a loud agreement. Not a vow. But it still left a strange taste in her mouth—like she’d given something away without meaning to.

Mido tilted his head, satisfied. “Good.”

She should’ve left it there. Should’ve walked away.

Instead, she hesitated, then spoke before she could stop herself. “Why do you care so much? It’s not like I’m failing.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just regarded her for a long, unreadable moment.

Then—softly, simply—

“If I don’t, who will?”

He shrugged. “Most teachers push their students to work harder,” he said. “I’m just asking you to stop pretending you're not already five steps ahead.”

His voice stayed low, but the words landed heavy.

“I don’t think you want to be invisible. I think you’ve just forgotten how not to be. If I, as your teacher, can remind you of that—even a little—then I will.”

She stared at him, uncertain, caught between the instinct to dismiss him and something else—something quieter—she’d never admit.

But then—

Before she could say anything, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall.

Both of them turned, just slightly.

It was another member of the faculty, one of Ayano’s former teachers. Taught her in her first year, if she remembered right. Nice enough. But observant. Too observant. All the teachers were.

She strode past—then stopped.

Right in front of the faculty room door.

The voice cut in, chipper and curious. “Oh? Aishi? What are you doing here?” she asked, looking between her and Mido. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”

Mido answered before she had to.

“...She was helping me,” he said easily, stepping forward just enough to angle himself slightly in front of her. “I asked her to drop off some files. She’s already finished.”

His tone was light—believable. Ayano stayed silent.

The teacher blinked. “Oh. I see.” She gave a polite laugh. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. Aishi—don’t cause any trouble, alright?”

“Don't worry, she would never,” Mido replied, pleasant as ever. 

The teacher gave a short nod and moved on. They waited until her footsteps faded down the hall. 

Silence settled again.

Mido didn’t look at her right away. He just slipped his hands into his pockets, still facing the door, as if thinking.

“…You’re welcome,” he said eventually, tone dry.

She gave him a flat look. “I didn’t ask you to lie.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Ayano stared at him a moment longer. “Why did you cover for me?” 

Mido tilted his head, considering her. “I could ask you the same thing,” he said. “Why pretend to be something you’re not?”

She didn’t answer.

He smiled again—wry this time, a little tired.

“Go,” he murmured. “Before the next teacher wants an explanation too.”

And just like that, the moment ended. She left without a word.

She didn’t roll her eyes, but she wanted to.

She wouldn’t thank him.

But she didn’t deny that he helped. She should’ve been relieved. One bug successfully planted, one more task off her list.

But instead, all she could think about was the way he’d looked at her. Like he meant it. Like he saw her. She still didn’t understand it.

What did he see in her, exactly?

And—what did it mean now that she’d agreed?

No more average grades. No more blending in. No more pretending to be forgettable. She’d made a trade. One simple agreement, casually spoken, but it nagged at her now.

She hadn't planned for this part.

It wasn’t as if she’d made a blood oath. She hadn’t promised anything, not really.

Just a few words. A moment of quiet surrender.

Still, for some reason, it felt like a promise. Like she owed him now. Not because he demanded it—he hadn’t—but because she’d let him believe her.

Because she’d let herself believe it, too.

That maybe, just maybe, she should stop hiding.

The thought unsettled her.

She didn’t do expectations. Didn’t do pride, or trust, or letting people see too much.

And now… the one aspect of her life she always felt she had full control over—her grades—was no longer something she could pretend to be average at.

She slipped her phone from her pocket and texted Info-kun one word.

“Done.”

She walked away.

You win some, you lose some.

Chapter Text

The air in the girl’s bathroom was heavy with hairspray, perfume, and the sweet scent of candy-flavoured vape.

Laughter bounced off the walls as five girls stood clustered in a tight circle around the mirror. Some lounged casually on the sinks, one smoothed down her skirt, while another powdered her face.

Ayano entered quietly.

“Hey—uh, what the fuck?” One of the girls squinted at her. Bright pink and yellow hair, pink gloss, pink acrylic nails. “You lost, sweetie? Go the long way if you gotta piss.”

Another giggled nearby, not even looking up from her compact. “She’s probably here to cry or something.”

But then Musume turned.

Her lips parted into a wide, delighted smile the second she saw Ayano as if she was the cure to world hunger.

“Wait, chill,” Musume told the others, waving them off like buzzing flies.

“…Chill? Who the hell is she—“

“So do you have it?” Musume cut the girl off sharply, already turning toward Ayano.

Ayano didn’t say anything. She just approached, reached into her pocket, and handed Musume the pack of cigarettes.

Musume gasped. “Oh. My. God. You’re an angel. I could kiss you. Do you know how hard it’s been not stabbing someone today?”

Ayano studied her quietly. The signs were obvious—tight shoulders, twitchy fingers, the way Musume’s whole demeanor shifted the second she caught sight of the nicotine. It wasn’t just want, it was need. Addiction made people weird. Irritable. Paranoid. Angry one second, best friends the next. It didn’t matter who you were, as long as you had the fix.

But more than anything, Ayano knew—sometimes it was about relief. That desperate need to feel like you were in control of something, even if it was just a cigarette. Something to cling to when everything else was too much, too stressful.

…After all, she’d seen it before in her father.

One of the other girls—a purple-haired one with matching eyeshadow and a voice that grated as she chewed gum loudly between every word—leaned in.

“Whoa, whoa. What’s this? Who’s she, your new dealer?” She laughed, eyeing Ayano. “No way. It’s always the quiet ones. Hey, what’s your name? You got anything else?”

Ayano blinked. “It’s a one-time thing.”

The girl’s smile dropped, replaced with a mild scowl as she leaned back.

Musume, still riding the high of finally easing her nicotine withdrawal, barely paid her any mind. “You know I was about to snap, right? Like, I looked at Horuda during lunch and almost lunged at her. She was chewing so loud, I swear—”

“She’s always chewing loud,” someone else chimed in.

“I know, right?” Musume tore open the pack and exhaled with relief, turning back to Ayano. “God. Thank you. You’re literally my life saver,” she groaned. “Like, for real—you just instantly became my BFF.”

Ayano, didn’t reply, just reached into her bag and pulled out the makeup pouch from earlier to return.

Musume let out a short laugh, somewhere between a scoff and a snort. “Oh, that? Just keep it. I seriously have, like, fifty more at home.”

She held it out anyway.

She didn’t want the pouch. Didn’t want anything tying her to this.

Musume blinked, cigarette paused near her lips. “You don’t want it?”

“I don’t want to owe you.”

That caught Musume off guard for a second. Then she winked. “Babe. You don’t owe me. You paid in ciggies.”

Ayano still didn’t move.

But Musume dismissed her with a wave, too busy already lighting the cigarette. “You ever thought about going full gyaru? I could totally teach you. You’ve got the face for it. Like, mysterious-but-hot. I can work with that.”

“No, thanks,” she declined, her voice flat as she put the pouch back in her bag.

“Lame.” Musume blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Could’ve been iconic.”

The bell rang again, this time signaling the end of school.

Ayano left the bathroom, the gossip behind her already returning to full volume. She turned to walk down the hallway, trying to remember what was next.

She didn’t even get a single step in when she heard a voice.

“Were you skipping cleaning time?”

Great. 

Who was it this time?

She turned to see Megamo approaching, arms crossed. His eyes flicked across her face, then dipped lower—pausing, just briefly, at the side of her neck, searching for something. 

“No,” she replied curtly.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Then why were you in there?”

She bit down the urge to scoff. Seriously? Still with the suspicion? What if she had been cleaning the bathroom? Or crying, or hiding, or taking the world’s most tragic dump? 

“Why does it matter?” she asked, voice mild. “Were you following me?”

“Is there a reason I should be?” he shot back. But the edge in his tone faltered—less guarded now, almost… hesitant. As if he was weighing whether to bring something up.

Instead, he cleared his throat and said, quieter, a bit offhand, “…You smell like cigarettes.”

“Not mine,” she replied flatly.

“Still a school violation.”

What was this, some passive-aggressive power trip? A weak excuse to interrogate her? “Are you going to report me?”

“No, I just…”

He trailed off. That was new. Megamo, at a loss for words? He usually had a full thesis ready before most people finished blinking. 

“Stop beating around the bush. Just say what you want to say and leave.” Ayano questioned.

He exhaled, tension tightening his jaw.

Truthfully, there was only one topic he was actually interested in. The faint smell of cigarettes? Suspicious, sure. But there was a more pressing matter at hand—one he still didn’t have the answers to—and it was eating at him from the inside out.

“Your neck,” he said at last. His gaze locked on it again, this time with weight. “What happened to it? Explain properly this time.”

She tilted her head. “My neck?”

“Don’t feign ignorance now, Aishi. You think makeup makes it disappear? I saw it before. I see it now.”

She stilled, surprised by how easily he saw through her—how quickly he called it out for what it was. She had thought she’d done a good job in the bathroom earlier. But then again, this was Megamo.

She held his gaze. “I didn’t realise it was any of your business. Not before, and not now.”

“Of course it’s my business, Aishi. You getting hurt—” He paused. “A student of this school,” he corrected, a little too quickly. “A student getting hurt is always my business.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Right. Because that’s all I am to you. A student. An outlier. A possible liability. A checkbox on your mental clipboard.”

He didn’t respond. She didn’t expect him to.

“I don’t get it,” she muttered.

“What’s there not to get—”

“Why are you paying so much attention to me?” Ayano’s tone didn’t rise, didn’t shift, but the words hit harder than if she’d yelled. “Because of my family? Because of the people around me? Do you think I asked for any of it?”

All she wanted was to stay invisible, to keep her head down. 

But why did it seem like, lately, she was a spotlight magnet?

His expression tightened. “I pay attention to everyone.”

“No, you don’t. Not to the same extent.”

“Aishi—”

“And the chocolates.” She cut him off, “I still don’t get that either. Did you think that was some kind of mastermind play? What was the point?”

His brows furrowed. “What was I supposed to think? You joined the martial arts club immediately after. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

She blinked, genuinely confused. “What are you talking about?”

Then it clicked.

“Oh. I see.” She let out a humourless breath. “So the chocolates were just a setup for you to jump to your own conclusions.” 

His mouth opened slightly, like he had an explanation ready, but he hesitated. He looked like he wanted to justify it, to tell her she was in the wrong and he was in the right—but for once, the words didn’t come easily.

“Correlation doesn’t equal causation, Megamo. Your theories aren’t always going to be correct. Surely even you know that.”

He stiffened.

Him—not right? To him, that wasn’t just unusual. That was impossible. Unthinkable, even. He was raised to be infallible. Certain. Flawless in thought and execution.

So how did she make him question it?

“Then why did you join the martial arts club? Why else would you be so paranoid?”

Ayano didn’t answer.

The silence was heavier than any words could’ve been. And suddenly, something shifted. His mind reeled back—to the bruise on her neck. The shape of it. Fingers. Hands. Someone else’s.

It was all beginning to add up. And yet, at the same time, absolutely none of it did.

Ayano wasn’t supposed to be the one in danger. She was the danger. The threat. The one they were supposed to watch, monitor, control. She was supposed to be like her mother.

But what if that wasn’t the full picture?

Of course, it didn’t let her off the hook. But it meant something else was in motion—something he hadn’t accounted for.

And Megamo Saikou did not sit still in the face of unknowns. Especially not dangerous ones.

Ayano exhaled, folding her arms. “Have you ever stopped to consider that maybe the only paranoid one here is you?” she spoke, and her words lingered in the air, sharp and quiet.

Megamo’s jaw tightened.

He didn’t respond. His gaze flicked to her, and for a moment, he looked like he’d been struck. He wasn’t used to being accused. Not like that—not so directly. His mind scrambled to refute it, to explain that it wasn’t paranoia—it was vigilance, precaution, responsibility. But the words stayed jammed behind his clenched teeth.

Because the worst part? A part of him—the rational, calculating part—was beginning to wonder if she was right.

Behind Megamo, the corridors were beginning to crowd—doors flung open, students spilling out. Some moved quickly for the exits. Others drifted, laughing, stretching, dragging their feet toward lockers or clubrooms.

Ayano paused, letting her gaze trail after them. Clubrooms.

Right—after school hours. Club activities.

And to her, that meant—the Drama Club.

Even after everything, she’d still agreed to it. To standing under stage lights and pretending to be someone she wasn’t.

Not too far off from her real life, she supposed.

But just as she was about to leave, a friendly voice cut through the noise. 

“President, there’s—”

Akane, the crimson-haired student council secretary, came to a stop beside them, and her gaze bounced between Ayano and Megamo. “Oh. Sorry. Am I interrupting something?”

“No, you’re not,” Ayano replied immediately. “I was just leaving.”

“You’re not leaving,” Megamo cut in. “We aren’t done talking.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

…Really? Ayano stared at him, unimpressed. Then turned to leave anyway.

“Aishi—“

Akane cleared her throat gently.

Megamo hesitated, glanced at Ayano, then sighed, turning back to Akane. Right. He’d forgotten she was there. “…What is it?”

As Akane launched into a rundown of numbers and student council budget logistics, Ayano noticed a few students looking her way. Staring just long enough to be annoying.

Perfect. Just what she needed—more eyes on her. Being seen with probably the most untouchable guy in school was already enough to draw this much attention.

Alright. She survived the interrogation. Now it was time to survive amateur theatre. Without another word, she slipped away, leaving the two to their business. 

Megamo’s eyes lingered on her retreating back, even as Akane spoke beside him. 

“…And as for the distribution of payments, there was a—President?”

He didn’t respond.

Akane tilted her head, following his gaze. “Hm. You know,” she said lightly, “you keep saying that girl’s a potential threat who needs constant surveillance, but… are you sure you’re not a little too interested in her?”

His gaze snapped back to her, sharp and immediate. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Mmhm.” Akane only smiled, unconvinced. “Okay.”

…

Ayano turned the corner heading toward the gymnasium—where the drama club rehearsed—but didn’t get far before she collided into someone.

There was a soft thump, the quiet flutter of something hitting the ground.

Oko stepped back quickly, bent in a panic. “Sorry—sorry, I didn’t see—“

His notebook had fallen, landing on the floor, wide open, the pages crowded with writing. Ayano caught only a few words.

…Siren Observation Log?

That, and her name. A couple times, actually. Not just mentioned—underlined.

He slapped his hand over the page to cover it too late, already flustered. His fingers fumbled as he rushed to close it and scoop it off the ground.

“That’s—! I—I mean, it’s not what it looks like… Or maybe it is—but I swear it’s not creepy, I mean, not that creepy—"

Ayano just stared.

She didn't really care. At least not enough to be mad. Curiosity? Maybe. Annoyance? Slightly. But concern? Not really. If anything, she was mostly wondering what exactly there was to be observed about her by Oko. Compared to Megamo’s observations, this was practically endearing.

Oko stood, clutching the book to his chest, eyes firmly trained on a spot on the floor.

“It’s… for research,” he added weakly. “I was just… uh… tracking patterns for the occult club. Phenomena. Energy spikes. You just happen to be near a lot of them.”

"Right."

His eyes flicked toward her for a split second, then darted away again. Guilt or excitement—it was always hard to tell with him whenever a topic of occult came up.

Ayano tilted her head. “So... siren?”

“Well, yeah. I mean…” He kept avoiding her gaze, his fingers tightening around the spine of his notebook. “It’s a theory. Folklore. You know. A paranormal magnetism... Luring people. Making them follow you. A sense of dread, or awe, or obsession...”

Ayano barely registered half of his occult language. He lost her at paranormal magnetism. 

“…Do you think I sound like a siren?”

Oko paused. “What?”

“Like… the alarm kind. On ambulances.”

Was that not what a siren was?

He opened his mouth to correct her, then visibly hesitated. “…Sure. Yeah. That kind.”

“So I’m loud and annoying?” 

Hm. Definitely different. But oddly refreshing, for some reason.

His soul visibly left his body.

“No…! Not annoying. Just… notable. You know? People can’t help but notice you...” He trailed off, his ears turning red the second the words left his mouth.

Ayano blinked.

Nevermind. That was… quite literally the exact opposite of what she wanted to hear.

There was a long silence.

“...I sound insane,” he mumbled, half under his breath.

Ayano didn’t answer, which only made it worse.

Oko shifted, glanced down at his shoes, then back up at her. “Uh…” he blurted, scrambling for something—anything—to say to fill the awkward silence. “Hm… If… If you could make a deal with a demon, what would you ask for?”

Ayano blinked. Interesting choice of conversation starter. “Is that part of a club survey?”

“No… Just curious…”

She didn’t answer right away. But she actually thought about it.

A deal with a demon.

Her mind unwillingly drifted toward the thought of her mother. Her blood. Her instincts. The sharpness behind her calm. The awareness that never left. The thing inside her that always waited. Watching. Wanting.

The inherent sense of doom. The unspoken rules she'd memorised before she could even read: Stay hidden. Don’t trust. Blend in. Pretend.

She thought about how easy it had been these past days to manipulate. To give in to her instincts.

She hated it.

And she hated the idea of potentially proving Megamo right.

“I would ask to be normal,” she replied quietly.

Oko didn’t say anything, but his expression shifted, turning almost contemplative.

Another silence. Not heavy. Just there.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, voice a little breathless, “you should… stop by the Occult Club sometime. You might find it interesting.”

Ayano opened her mouth—but then remembered. Drama Club.

“I’ll think about it,” she said instead, already turning. “I have to go.”

“Okay,” he nodded, still clutching his notebook. “Bye…”

Oko watched her walk away. Then, he slowly cracked open his notebook, turning it to the page he'd scribbled on earlier, his last entry: 

Staring causes loss of motor control. Possible hypnotic properties. DO NOT maintain eye contact for more than 3 seconds.

He stared at the words, then exhaled shakily and shut the book.

He didn’t know when it started.

Maybe it was the day she first looked at him. Or the way she said his name—like it wasn’t weird. Like he wasn’t weird.

…Ever since he met Ayano Aishi, she kept slipping into his dreams.

At first, he thought it was coincidence. A familiar face from school appearing in his subconscious, no big deal. But then it kept happening. Over and over again. Her voice echoing in his mind. Her deadpan stare. The tilt of her head. The way she listened—not just politely, but like she was actually hearing him, when no one else ever did.

And… she was pretty. He’d noticed that, too—more times than he cared to admit.

But she wasn’t pretty in a way that made sense—not in the way people usually meant it. On the surface, she was plain. Easy to overlook. Unremarkable, even.

But the harder he looked, the harder it was to look away.

In his dreams, her hair moved like it was underwater—slow, weightless, impossibly soft. Her bangs always framed her face just right, like his mind refused to imagine her any other way. It was strange, the amount of detail he remembered her with.

He couldn’t even recall what he had for breakfast that morning, but Ayano’s face came to him in perfect clarity.

And her eyes.

Dull at first glance, but… not empty at all. They were deep. Consuming. Like a lake. The kind of eyes you could fall into if you weren’t careful—

No.

The kind you wanted to fall into.

And that terrified him more than anything.

Every time, he would wake up in a cold sweat. Heart racing. Mind racing faster.

There was only one conclusion that made sense—to him, at least.

Ayano Aishi was a siren.

It explained everything. The dreams. The pull. The way his hands trembled whenever she looked directly at him. It was a phenomenon, really. A paranormal aura. Magnetism. Possibly even latent psychic energy. She had to be doing something. Maybe she wasn’t even aware of it herself.

Because how else could he explain the way people reacted to her? Drawn in without realising it. The way they lingered. The way he lingered.

“Why else would she wish to be normal?” he murmured to himself, but the empty hallway had no answer.

He was investigating a rare anomaly. 

It was just science. Paranormal science.

Probably.

Maybe.

He looked down the hallway where she’d disappeared, unaware of the absolute chaos she left behind in his brain. His heart did something strange and fast in his chest.

Definitely a siren.

Definitely not just a crush.

“Yan-chan! I’m so glad you could make it!” Kokona beamed, practically bouncing where she stood backstage.

Ayano gave a small nod as Kokona shoved a script into her hands.

“Here, take this.”

The stapled pages were full of colour-coded sticky tabs. Hearts were doodled in the margins. Stars. A tiny cartoon Juliet crying dramatically in the corner of one page.

“…Did you decorate this?”

“Just a little,” Kokona replied, eyes twinkling. “I thought it might make things more fun. I know you’re doing this for me.”

Footsteps echoed behind them. Kizano approached, already fully dressed as Romeo. Velvet doublet. Billowing sleeves. Ruffled collar. The deep blue fabric suited his complexion, the collar framing his jaw a little too perfectly. 

He was really going for it. 

It would’ve been laughable if it didn’t suit him so annoyingly well. If he didn’t talk so much, he could actually pass for a prince.

He held out a red dress. “Ayano. Wear this and then we’ll begin with Act 2, Scene 2.”

“I thought this was just a rehearsal.” She didn’t move to take the dress—she didn’t see the need. It was a Thursday afternoon in a dusty gymnasium. Not the met gala. 

Kizano held the fabric for a moment longer, then exhaled.

“Even rehearsals deserve effort,” he sighed. “You have to feel the part. Get into character. Especially since we’re the leads…”

He paused, watching her expression—blank, unmoving.

She was reluctant.

“…Very well then,” he continued. “We’ll save it for the play.”

Kokona stared, clearly caught off guard. She looked between them with wide eyes, like she’d just watched a lion voluntarily back down.

“Yan-chan,” she said once Kizano walked off, “you’re amazing.”

Ayano blinked. 

“No, seriously. What’s your secret? Like, first Kizano openly said he wanted you to be Juliet. He chose you. And now he’s adjusting for you? I’ve never seen him back down from a decision before.”

Ayano wasn’t sure what Kokona meant. Adjust what? All she did was not take the dress. What was there to be amazed by?

Kizano returned before she could ask. “Ayano. Take your place in the balcony.”

“There is no balcony.”

“Oh, you cute thing.” He smiled. “You need to imagine it. Build it in your mind. Create the illusion. Be the stage.”

He turned, positioning himself beneath the imaginary window. “My Juliet, are you ready? You can read the script as we go, for now.”

She was hesitant, but nodded anyway.

“Perfect. Then let’s begin.” He took a breath and stepped into character, suddenly solemn. “But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun…”

He looked up at her expectantly. Ayano flipped to her line and read it. “O Romeo. Romeo. Wherefore art thou Romeo.”

Dry as ever.

Kizano’s expression faltered. He let out a breath through his nose. “Ayano. Remember—Juliet is aching. Desperate. In love. Again.”

She repeated it, barely changing a thing. “O Romeo, Romeo. Wherefore art thou Romeo?”

This wasn’t her strong suit. Not even close.

From the side, Kokona—still holding up a cardboard cutout of a tree—tried to jump in. “Maybe she’s playing Juliet cold and aloof?”

“Cold and aloof?” Kizano echoed. “That’s not cold and aloof. That’s a hostage reading a ransom note.”

“I didn’t ask to be Juliet,” Ayano sighed. “You did.”

His eyebrow twitched. He paused.

“…That’s right, I did.” He stepped forward, voice lowering. “So now that you’re here—you’re mine. Juliet is mine. Give her life. Give her blood. Give her something.”

Kokona chimed in again. “Ayano… maybe just try saying it like… you’re really wondering where Romeo is? Like you miss him?”

“I’ve never missed anyone.”

Kizano turned to her in genuine disbelief. “Really? Never?” he asked, something unreadable in his voice.

Ayano paused, visibly. Her gaze fell, just slightly. Her grip on the script loosened.

Her mind drifted—against her will—to Taro. His kind eyes. His gentle voice. How she was always aware of where he was in a room. Of when he wasn’t.

She’d lied.

Truth was, she was always in a continuous state of missing him. Longing for him. Even now, even with everything that had been going on around her, even with every possible thing she had to worry about. He was the only constant variable.

Her face softened—barely. A flicker. Almost imperceptible.

Kizano saw it. He snapped his fingers, stepping closer, eyes locked on her.

“Yes. That. That’s perfect.”

She blinked out of it, expression tightening again. “Let’s—just keep going.”

But as soon as she began again, the flicker was gone. Back to monotone.

Kizano watched her, puzzled. What happened to that flash of emotion? That ghost of longing? It had been real—he was sure of it. He thought back to last time, when she’d played the serial killer in their thriller play. She’d been convincing. Too convincing. Calm, chilling, precise. 

But now, when it came to playing a lovesick girl? She was struggling.

Interesting.

He clapped once. “We’ll switch scenes. Set up for Act 5, Scene 3.”

Perhaps a change in scenery could do the trick.

…

Kokona tugged on Ayano’s sleeve, holding the script open to Act 5, Scene 3. “This is the one,” she gushed. “It’s the big one. The most dramatic scene in the whole play.”

Ayano stared at the page. The death scene.

She hesitated.

Kokona noticed. “Yan-chan?”

“I don’t want to do another scene where people die.”

Kokona tilted her head. “Really? But you’re so good at them! And this one’s different. It’s tragic and beautiful, not violent. It’s about love. Sacrifice. Two people choosing to be together even in death.”

Ayano looked unconvinced.

“I mean—it’s pretend, right?” Kokona added quickly. “You’re not actually dying. You’re just… imagining. Feeling what Juliet might feel.”

That didn’t help much, but Ayano gave a small nod anyway. If Kokona really wanted it… fine.

She took her place inside the cardboard coffin, lay down, rigid as a board. Kizano—already sitting dramatically on the floor with a prop vial near his hand—snuck a glance at her.

“Ready?” he mumbled out of the side of his mouth.

“I guess.”

Kizano cleared his throat and launched into Romeo’s final monologue. “Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace…”

He leaned forward toward Ayano—who just stared at him, then drank the vial.

“…O true apothecary, thy drugs are quick,” he finished.

He collapsed in theatrical slow motion, like he wanted the entire gymnasium to savour the moment of his demise.

Ayano waited two seconds. Then got up.

“No—you’re not supposed to be awake yet,” Kizano whispered without opening his eyes.

“Oh.” She lay back down again, stiff and expressionless.

After a brief exchange between the actors who Ayano presumed were playing Balthasar and Friar Lawrence, Kizano muttered, “Now.”

Then, right on cue this time, she pushed herself up again, voice calm as she began Juliet’s final lines.

“What’s here. A cup. Closed in my true love’s hand.” She glanced down at the prop. “Poison, I see, hath… been his timeless end. O churl, drunk all, and left no friendly drop to help me after…”

Her eyes skimmed ahead on the script.

“I will—” She paused. “…kiss thy lips.”

Kizano’s eyes snapped completely open. Wait… kiss?

For a second, his brain went inexplicably blank. He’d been so focused on timing, cues, and Ayano’s delivery that he’d completely forgotten this was the moment Juliet was supposed to kiss Romeo’s lips—his lips.

His ears tinged red. It made no sense—he was Kizano, the club president. He could recite all of Shakespeare’s works in his sleep, in alphabetical order and backwards.

He mentally cursed himself. And it wasn’t like this part in particular was obscure or difficult—it was one of the most famous moments in Romeo and Juliet. But the words caught him off guard, coming alive in a new way now that Ayano was delivering them. 

Maybe it wasn’t even the line itself that caught him off guard. Maybe it was the way Ayano said it—so deadpan, so utterly unromantic—that it threw him. The words, heavy with passion in the script, sounded strange and raw coming from her. Somehow, it felt different this time—more real, more awkward.

Why was he getting flustered?

When he finally spoke, it was a rushed, uneven whisper. “Just—just skip that part. You don’t have to… you know.”

”Wasn’t planning on it.”

She picked up where she left off, her tone as even as before. “O happy dagger. This is thy sheath. There rust… and let me die.” 

She plunged the prop dagger right into the centre of her chest, as per the script.

She paused. Looked around. “…Am I supposed to fall over now?”

Kokona, still in costume as a tree again, gave her a thumbs-up from offstage.

Ayano let herself fall to the floor with minimal effort.

The other actors rushed on stage for the final tableau. One of them gasped dramatically and knelt beside Ayano.

“She’s dead!” someone shouted.

Another actor joined in, shaking her shoulder. “Juliet! Speak to me!”

Ayano opened one eye. “I’m still breathing.”

Kokona made a panicked hand motion. “Stay dead! Stay dead!”

Ayano closed her eye again, but as the actors panicked around her, she blinked, sat up slightly, and looked at the wound.

“This is inaccurate,” she remarked flatly. “This wound isn’t even fatal. You’d still have about nine minutes and twenty-two seconds to stop the bleeding.”

Everyone on stage paused.

Kizano, from the floor, cracked one eye open. “…How do you even know that with such accuracy—? No—okay—Ayano.”

She looked down at the spot where the dagger was in her. “This part misses any major arteries in the heart. If you applied pressure and elevated my legs—”

“Ayano.”

“—and got emergency services involved within five minutes, there’s a high survival rate.”

“This is Shakespeare,” Kizano said, sitting up now. “You don’t fact-check Shakespeare.”

Ayano turned toward him, deadpan. “Then don’t stab wrong.”

Someone backstage laughed. Kokona clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her giggle.

Kizano dragged a hand down his face. “Okay. That’s it. End of rehearsal.”

Ayano lay back down again, peacefully.

“So am I dead or not?”

“You’re dead emotionally,” Kizano muttered. “Which I guess counts.”

Kokona gave a double thumbs-up. “That was amazing, everyone!”

…

The gymnasium lights dimmed as rehearsal wrapped up. Props were being packed, scripts stacked, and cardboard trees shuffled into the supply closet. 

Ayano lingered by the edge of the curtain, just out of view. She wasn’t in a hurry. People moved around her without noticing—something she’d always been good at.

Behind the prop rack, some students had gathered, voices low.

"I mean, it's totally unfair," came a sharp whisper. “She can’t act. Like, at all.”

Ayano didn’t need to hear more to know who the subject matter was.

“That entire balcony scene?,” the same person continued. “Zero. Emotion. And that’s who he picks as Juliet?”

It was Tokuko. Ayano recognised the voice the more it went on. The girl’s arms were crossed, her expression sour as she stood beside the prop bin, speaking just loud enough to be heard.

“I’ve been in this club for almost half a year now,” she went on. “I’ve memorised every major soliloquy in Shakespeare’s catalog. But no, Kizano just points to some random girl and says, ‘That’s Juliet.’”

A few of the other club members shifted awkwardly, exchanging looks. No one seemed eager to agree out loud.

“Tokuko,” one of them muttered. “Don’t start.”

She scoffed. “Why not? No one else will say it. Kizano acts like his word is law. But just because he thinks she’s interesting or whatever doesn’t make her a good actress. Did you see her delivery? I’ve seen GPS directions with more feeling.”

Ayano blinked, still hidden in the shadows, her gaze lowering slightly.

“I liked her delivery,” Kokona’s voice piped up, firm but calm. She stepped into view, arms full of crumpled fabric and plastic daggers. “She’s different. And she’s trying.”

Tokuko turned to her. “Come on, Kokona. You’re just saying that because she’s your friend.”

“Yeah, she’s my friend,” Kokona replied evenly, “but Kizano chose her because he saw something in her. Just because she doesn’t perform like you doesn’t mean she’s bad. She’s just… honest.”

Tokuko’s lip curled. “Honesty won’t get you a standing ovation.”

“No,” Kokona said, turning away to help pack up the costume box. “But being bitter doesn’t either.”

From nearby, another club member who’d been quiet until now spoke up. “Kokona’s right. And you weren’t here to see when she filled in for your serial killer role. She was actually really good.”

Tokuko didn’t answer.

Kokona turned back to the props, unfazed. “Anyway. Some of us are trying to clean up.”

Ayano stayed silent, listening from behind the curtain. The words didn’t sting, exactly—but they lingered. Hung in the air.

She hadn’t asked to be Juliet.

And Kokona… didn’t have to defend her.

Her eyes lowered to the script in her hand, the corner still creased where she'd clutched it. She flipped to a random page. Act 3. Another scene about longing.

Ayano didn’t know how to feel about any of it.

But something in her chest stirred—a feeling she didn’t like. Guilt? Maybe. Not because of the role, nor because Kizano chose her. But because Kokona had stood up for her, and she… hadn’t earned it.

And somewhere nearby, Tokuko’s eyes burned as she clenched a script so tightly it became folded and creased.

…

Ayano stepped out the gymnasium, ready to head home. Finally. It was quiet now. Peaceful. Uneventful. She relished in not being bothered by anyone for once.

Naturally, that meant it wouldn’t last.

“Ayano.”

She turned. Kizano stood a few steps behind, one hand in his pocket, the other brushing hair out of his eyes.

“You’re leaving without feedback?” he asked, strolling toward her. “We haven’t even discussed your performance.”

“I thought the performance was over.”

He laughed softly. “The performance is never over.”

She didn’t reply. If he was talking about her life story, he had a point, in a way. 

“You know, you have something most don’t,” Kizano began, slowing to a stop right in front of her. “Presence. It’s unrefined, of course—but that’s the charm. There’s potential.”

She stared at him, unmoving. What exactly was she supposed to do about that? Honestly, she didn’t agree. Whatever ‘presence’ he thought she had, she didn’t want it. And potential didn’t really mean much.

“…So you’re saying I’m bad,” she said flatly.

“I’m saying you’re raw, which is much better than being polished and boring.” He stepped closer, tone softening slightly. “I could help you, if you wanted. We could run lines sometime. Just the two of us.”

Ayano blinked. Help? The offer lingered in her mind longer than she expected. And after everything she’d heard from Tokuko, it was kinda clear she needed it. But just as Ayano was about to open her mouth to reply, a familiar voice cut in, sharp and annoyed.

“Tch. There you are.”

Osano approached the two, hands in his pockets, expression pulled into his usual scowl. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Why weren’t you in class earlier?”

Right. That.

“I just wasn’t feeling well. So I went to the nurse.”

He sighed. “You’re such a pain.” He cleared his throat, voice quieter now, like he was trying to sound nonchalant and failing miserably. “But, uh… you’re okay now, right?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

From behind her, Kizano’s posture shifted. Subtle, but not subtle enough to miss. His eyes flicked to Osano with a clear, narrow-eyed glare. Osano caught it and tossed one right back.

“…Did you join the drama club or something?” Osano—just barely acknowledging Kizano’s presence—asked Ayano, squinting at her.

“No. I’m just helping out for something,” she replied, her tone as even as ever. “What about you? Why are you still at school?”

She didn’t recall Osano being in any clubs.

Before he could answer, yet another voice called out cheerfully from across the courtyard.

“Ayano! There you are!”

Amao jogged up, a tray of brownies balanced in his hands. He looked like he’d sprinted halfway across campus without dropping a crumb.

“I thought you already left. Osano and I were looking for you after we finished cooking.”

Ayano tilted her head, turning to Osano. “So you joined the cooking club?”

Osano flinched. “Wha—No! I just—He made me carry stuff, that’s all!”

“He came in and helped bake,” Amao added helpfully.

“It was one time!” Osano snapped, his face reddening. “I was just… taste testing. Or whatever.”

“You wore a pink apron.”

“Shut up, Amao!” 

Osano looked away like that would hide the blush. It didn’t.

Anao watched him, the corners of his mouth twitching. Osano seemed the type to get loud when he was embarrassed—but this wasn’t just regular flustered. No, that was a very specific kind of red. He knew the difference. The kind that only showed up when you were around a special someone. Even if you didn’t know it yourself, your cheeks would always give you away. Yes, the kind that showed up only under…

…Only under Ayano’s attention?

And it made something in Amao click.

Was it him?

Was Osano the one she’d been thinking about that day?

On Valentine’s Day, when Ayano had asked for Amao’s help making chocolates? She hadn’t said who they were for. He hadn’t asked. But now, with the way Osano was reacting, the way he couldn’t meet her eyes—

Amao pushed the thought aside and smiled again, offering the tray up to her like nothing had crossed his mind.

She reached for one.

At the same moment, both Kizano and Amao leaned forward—each speaking at once.

“Ayano, if you’re free this weekend, maybe we could—”

“Ayano, you should come by the club again! We’re making lemon bars next time—”

The two boys stopped. Looked at each other. 

“…Is this your new club member recruitment tactic?” Kizano asked, smile thin and forced.

“What, being nice?”

Off to the side, Osano crossed his arms, glaring off to the side like this whole thing was beneath him. “This is stupid,” he muttered.

Ayano took a bite of the brownie. Chewed. Swallowed.

“I’m going home,” she said at last.

And with that, she turned and walked off.

Behind her, the boys stood in silence. Each one of them watched her retreating form with different expressions.

Kizano exhaled through his nose and muttered something—probably something pompous—under his breath.

Amao just smiled and offered Osano a brownie. “Want one?”

“Shut up.”

…

After changing her shoes at the lockers, Ayano stepped out the doors. Just a few more steps and she’d be free—home, solitude, silence.

She didn’t even make it to the gate when she saw him—Hanako, running up to her. 

Of course, she did the only reasonable thing.

She ran away.

“Hey, wait—“

She sped up, but it was useless. He caught up with ease.

“Caught you,” Hanako sang, and an arm draped casually over her shoulders. “Didn’t know we were playing tag.”

She stiffened. “We weren’t. Get off.”

“Hm, but I quite like this position we’re in.”

“I don’t.”

He was too close. Too warm. Too fake. He shouldn’t be this casual. Not after everything. Not after earlier.

She glanced around. A few students were still leaving, some lingering. Not many, but maybe enough to keep him in check. Maybe. He wouldn’t do anything. Not here.

Would he?

She’d learned the hard way that with him, there were no guarantees.

She shoved his arm off. As noisy as the boys were, she was beginning to regret leaving Kizano, Amao, and Osano. Anything was better than Hanako.

“Leave me alone.”

“I don’t want to.”

Hanako’s voice was light, almost boyish—like he was joking. Like this was all just harmless fun.

“Let me walk you home,” he added, voice pleasant, as if this were normal. As if they were best friends.

Was he being serious? 

“No. I’m going home, but you are not coming with me.”

“Come on,” he said, smiling sidelong at her. “It’s not that weird. Friends walk each other home all the time. I promise not to bite.”

“I’m not your friend.” She kept walking.

“Hey, wait.” He caught up in half a step, matching her pace easily. “Don’t tell me you’re mad about earlier. I’m sorry, alright?”

Then his voice lowered, quiet enough so only she could hear.

“See? It didn’t even leave a bruise.”

Unbelievable.

Ayano stopped. Then turned to him. She just couldn’t figure him out. And she hated how much he was downplaying all of this. 

“…Are you bipolar? Do you have split personality disorder? Whatever it is, just drop the act already. I’m sick of you, Nemesis.”

“Hanako,” he corrected, voice suddenly cold.

“Fine,” she said tightly. “Hanako. What do you want from me?”

He tilted his head, and the smile returned—but slower this time. There was no playfulness left in it. “You keep asking like it’ll change.”

“Maybe I’m just waiting for you to tell me the truth.”

“The truth?” he echoed.

He took a step closer. “I don’t know what the truth is anymore. I honestly don’t even know what’s real anymore. But you’re the only thing in my head that doesn’t feel like a lie.”

She shut that down before it could even sink in. Before the words could twist into something she had to carry. 

“Save the poetry,” she snapped. “You almost killed me today.”

His face tightened. Not like he hadn’t expected her to say it—but like he hated hearing it out loud. “I almost lost my mind today.”

Ayano stilled.

“I’m trying, Ayano.” There was a weariness now to his voice, beneath the cold, beneath the charm. 

There it was again. That shift. That tired, cracking beneath the surface. Something worn thin and unraveling. She really couldn’t figure him out. But she didn’t care. She couldn’t care less about a homicidal maniac like him.

“Then stop trying.”

She turned, already done with him.

She thought he’d leave after that.

He didn’t.

He followed.

Not beside her, not close enough to touch. Just a little behind. Just close enough to make sure she couldn’t forget he was there.

She should have told him to stop. Should have turned around, made a scene, walked the long way home. She didn’t want him knowing where she lived.

But who was she kidding? If he really wanted to know, he probably already did.

And at least this way, she could keep him in sight. Better the devil in your shadow than the one disappearing around corners and catching you off guard when you least expect it.

They walked like that the entire way, reaching her street just as the sky began to orange.

She stepped through the gate of her house. He slipped in not far behind her.

“Do you ever get lonely?” he asked suddenly.

She didn’t answer.

Hanako leaned lazily against the fencepost, watching her curiously.

“You’re the only one who knows the real me,” he continued softly. “My own brother doesn’t even know about my other life. How sad is that?”

Ayano froze on the path.

“I’ve been doing this a long time, you know,” he went on, voice light, conversational—like he wasn’t talking about murder. “People beg, cry, scream. But no one ever looks at me the way you do. No one gets it. No one gets me.”

He paused, then added, “At first, I was pissed. Honestly, I just wanted to see you broken—completely crushed by me. The idea that a girl like you could stop me, not once but several times… I felt—predictable. But then I realised—“

He smiled. Almost fond. “It’s because you’re different. You see me.”

Ayano turned slowly to face him.

“I see you,” she said flatly. “And you’re insane.”

He gave a short breath, something between a scoff and a laugh.

“…You say that, but we’re the same, aren’t we?” he said quietly. “I’ve seen it in you—that instinct, that darkness. That’s why you’re able to stop me. Thats why you’re still standing. Because you understand me. You’re just as capable. You’re just better at hiding it.”

As twisted as it was, he wasn’t entirely wrong. She was probably the only person Nemesis had ever targeted who was still alive. So yes, she knew the ‘real’ him. Yes, she’d lived under the weight of the Aishi curse her entire life. But…

“I don’t hide it,” Ayano said. “I fight it.”

And suddenly, her voice was gentler—like she was explaining something to herself as much as him.

“I could’ve been you,” she said. “But I’m not. Because I chose not to be.” 

He tilted his head, as if confused by the notion. Like the idea had never even occurred to him once before.

“So don’t insult me by saying we’re the same. I would never be as pathetic as you. Not in a million years.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” she replied plainly. “You think I know you just because I haven’t died yet? That’s not understanding.”

And for the first time, her eyes flashed—something cold, something ancient, something he hadn’t earned the right to awaken.

“I’ve never killed before,” she said, low. “Don’t make me prove I can.”

Silence.

Then his lips curved into a smile. A real one.

“Goodnight, Ayano,” he whispered.

Ayano slammed the door closed between them.

As the door clicked shut, a certain red-head’s eyes narrowed behind the lenses of his glasses, quietly taking in every word, every gesture. Neither Ayano nor Hanako had noticed the silent watcher across the street.

He lingered a moment longer before disappearing back around the corner.

Chapter Text

Ayano arrived early today—earlier than she usually bothered to be.

The morning air was still thin with quiet when she slipped through the school gates. Out of habit, her gaze drifted to the side, to that familiar spot where Taro and Osana would usually stand, talking before class.

But again, there was no one there. The space sat empty, undisturbed.

Her shoulders loosened, just slightly. Good.

She exhaled a silent breath and continued inside. At her locker, she changed into her indoor shoes, the faint sound of her footsteps echoing through the near-empty hall as she walked. 

Then she reached the end of the corridor—and froze.

A voice carried faintly from around the corner. Warm. Familiar. She could recognise it instantly. Even without seeing him. She’d know it anywhere.

Taro.

He was speaking to someone, his tone quiet, careful—too careful.

Without meaning to, Ayano found herself eavesdropping.

“Have I… done something to upset you?” Taro asked.

There was a brief silence, then a sharper reply.

“…No.”

Ayano went still. 

It was Osana. He was talking to Osana.

“You sure?” he pressed. “You’ve been kinda… avoiding me lately. Not walking to school with me. Barely talking during lunch. It’s… not like you.”

“I said it’s nothing.” Osana’s tone was defensive, but there was something under it, a flicker of discomfort she couldn’t quite hide. “You don’t have to make a big deal out of it.”

“I’m not trying to make a big deal,” Taro said gently. “I just… thought we were friends. If something’s wrong, I’d rather hear it from you.”

Another pause, longer this time.

“…It’s better this way,” Osana murmured.

“…Better for who?”

Silence again.

“Just—drop it, okay?”

Ayano stayed where she was, hidden just beyond the corner.

No expression crossed her face, but the faint sense of relief she’d felt earlier was already unraveling, her fingers curling into a fist at her side before she realised it.

She should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy.

Of course, she didn’t blame Osana. How could she? Clearly, Osana was trying—really trying—to keep her distance from Taro, just as Ayano had asked. But now, especially after all the time she’d spent watching them, Ayano knew that the bond between the two ran deep. Deeper than casual lunches or walks to school.

Deep enough that even if Osana tried to pull away… Taro would be the one to close the distance.

That much, she could understand.

And yet, that understanding made it hurt worse.

She could rationalise it. Tell herself the problem was already solved, that Osana’s willing absence from Taro’s side meant she’d succeeded. But it was a hollow victory. Because knowing their connection was strong enough to draw him back—no matter what—left a persistent ache in her chest.

One she wasn’t sure she could ever unfeel.

…

“So… what would you do in that situation?” Ayano asked.

She sat by the kitchen counter, a plate of leftover octodogs in front of her. One dangled from her chopsticks as she chewed thoughtfully, eyes unfocused.

Somehow, she’d ended up in the cooking club room again. Since she was early this morning, Amao was the only one there, standing at the counter with his sleeves rolled up, methodically chopping vegetables. Probably prepping something for today’s club activity.

She wasn’t sure why she’d come here just to talk about this problem in particular. Maybe it was because of the time when he gave her advice on Valentine’s Day, and he’d actually helped her then.

Somehow, it felt natural to let her thoughts slip out again.

“Hm… Well, that’s an interesting dilemma,” Amao replied after a moment. “So, your friend likes this guy, but there’s another girl he’s close with?”

“Yeah.”

He paused to brush chopped carrot into a neat pile. “Is that not just… a friendship? What’s the problem?”

Ayano let out a breath and looked down at her plate. “The problem is that the other girl also likes him. And my friend feels like she can’t compete with that kind of connection.”

Amao set down his knife and leaned his elbows on the counter, holding a slice of carrot between two fingers like he was about to make a point. “In that case, rather than trying to erase the already established connection between this girl and this guy, couldn’t you just… create your own? You should just win him over, Ayano.”

Ayano’s brow creased. “It’s not that simple—” She stopped, eyes narrowing. “No, I’m not the one trying to win him over. This is about my friend.”

“Oh, sorry. I meant your friend. But my point still stands.”  

Amao picked up his knife, then picked up one of the carrot slices he’d just cut. With the sharp of the blade, he split it clean into two slices.

“See, Ayano, some things you can’t put back together the way they were,” he explained, nudging the halves apart with the tip. “But that doesn’t mean you throw it out.” He reached for one slice and began trimming parts of the edges, rounding it into a softer shape, the shape of a flower.

“You take what you’ve got and turn it into something different. Something better. Basically, what I’m saying is—the best cook doesn't need to sabotage another's dish; they just need to prove their own is the most delicious. You should be the one to earn his affection directly.”

Ayano paused. The logic made sense. But still…

“…You’re doing it again,” she muttered. “Talking like it’s advice for me instead of my friend.” 

Maybe he wasn’t as fooled as she’d thought.

He tilted his head innocently. “Am I?”

“Yes,” she replied flatly.

Amao laughed under his breath. “Slip of the tongue.”

She cleared her throat. “Anyway, I think I understand what you’re saying, but still… It’s not that simple.”

“For you, maybe not.”

Her gaze lifted, flat and steady. “For her.”

Amao’s mouth quirked into the faintest smile. “Ohh right. Your friend.”

“…Are you messing with me?”

“Mm… maybe just a little.” He chuckled, going back to his cutting board as if he hadn’t just disarmed her facade entirely.

Beside him, steam curled from a bowl of soup. He poured the carrots in, gave them a slow stir, and glanced at her. “Here—taste this first.”

He lifted a spoonful and held it out to her. There was a gentle care in the way he offered it—as if the act itself was a small kindness meant only for her.

He expected her to take the spoon and feed herself.

Instead, without hesitation, Ayano leaned forward and chomped down firmly on the spoon itself. Letting him feed her like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Amao blinked in slight surprise.

“Ayano…”

“Hm?” She tilted her head, still chewing.

He studied her, something unreadable flickering behind his smile. Most of the time, he felt like Ayano was standing behind some invisible wall—cool, distant, hard to reach, her thoughts tucked away where no one could touch them. But it was in moments like this that peeled that away and left something unexpectedly human behind. Something disarmingly normal. Like she was just an ordinary girl—just Ayano.

Amao didn’t know which version he liked more. Maybe it didn’t matter. He liked every side.

He leaned forward onto the counter, resting his chin in his palm as he watched her eat. There was an absentminded ease to the way he stared at her—like he wasn’t even aware of how fond his look had become.

“You know,” he began slowly, “you shouldn’t let any other guy feed you like that.”

Ayano glanced at him, unbothered. “Why? It’s the most efficient way to eat it if it’s being offered like that.”

Amao chuckled under his breath. Of course she would say that. That was such an Ayano answer—practical to the point of missing what most people would consider the obvious. Sometimes, she was too oblivious for her own good. And maybe that was why he kept finding her so hard to look away from.

He stirred the soup again. “So, what do you think? Too salty? Too sweet? Not salty enough?” he asked.

She let the flavour wash over her tongue a moment longer before commenting on it, her voice flat but not unkind.

“No. It’s good.” 

Amao’s gaze softened. “Yeah? I thought you might like it.” He set the spoon down with a quiet clink. “Anyway, I get it. Your friend’s worried about competition. But if it were me? There wouldn’t be any.”

He leaned closer, voice lowering. “If I were that guy, I wouldn’t want anyone else. I’d want the girl right in front of me.”

…

Ayano slid into her seat in class, setting her bag down with a soft thump, the chatter of her classmates buzzing in the background.

Right on cue, the classroom door opened.

“Good morning, class,” Mido-sensei said as he strolled in, one hand in his pocket, the other tugging lazily at his collar. He leaned casually against the desk at the front, flashing his trademark grin.

“So,” he began, voice warm, “as you all probably know, Akademi’s cultural festival is next week.” His gaze flicked over the room. “It’s one of the most… highly anticipated events of the school year. A time of joy, togetherness… and perhaps a little romance, hm?”

Osano, who was sat right behind Ayano, looked instinctively to the back of her head before he caught himself, jerking his attention back forward.

“But,” Mido-sensei continued, straightening, “that means every class is responsible for setting up something special. A stall, an attraction, a performance. Something to make the day unforgettable. So… what shall it be, Class 2-1?”

Hands shot into the air, voices overlapping.

“Haunted house!” Daku Atsu from the occult club barked from the back.

“Boring!” someone else countered. “I say we do a photo booth!”

“Are you guys serious?” another groaned. “Obviously food stalls are going to be the most popular choice.”

The room erupted into debate, everyone trying to talk over everyone else. The air filled with clashing opinions—games, sweets, performances, gimmicks—until the classroom practically shook from the noise.

Ayano sighed quietly. She didn’t care much either way. Whatever the class decided was none of her business. Instead, she turned over Amao's advice in her mind.

Win Taro over. Amao’s logic—that creating a new connection was better than trying to destroy an old one—was sound. The cultural festival… maybe that could be her chance.

She stared out the window idly, noticing for the first time the delicate pink of the cherry blossoms just outside the pane. They had always been there, but now the colour seemed to register, soft and hopeful. She considered the difficulty of winning someone over directly, and for the first time, pushed aside the cold certainty that it was impossible. Maybe Amao was right. Maybe things could change. 

Then, cutting through the classroom’s chaos, a single voice rang out above the rest.

“We should do a maid cafe!”

The room fell silent.

Ayano almost choked on her own spit.

“…That’s…” someone in the front row began hesitantly.

“That’s a great idea!” another finished, suddenly far too enthusiastic.

In an instant, the room unified. Mostly the boys, to be fair, their cheers rising in agreement.

Ayano’s eye twitched. No, no. No. She sank slightly into her seat, pressing her fingers against her temple as if she could will the idea out of existence. There had to be something else… anything else.

Mido chuckled at the sudden enthusiasm. “Well, it seems our class has spoken. A maid cafe it is.” His eyes roamed along the class, gauging the individual reactions, pausing just long enough that Ayano felt the weight of them.

She looked away immediately.

This school festival was going to be a nightmare.

The rest of the school day passed by uneventfully, and now Ayano was working her actual shift at the cafe.

But the thought of having to bring this life into her school one made her want to crawl into a hole and stay there.

She moved through the small dining area, efficiently clearing a table of empty dessert dishes and used napkins. The cafe was usually busy at this hour—a mix of high schoolers and college students—but tonight was surprisingly slow. 

Orders scribbled, trays balanced, movements efficient to the point of invisibility. It was all muscle memory by now. 

“Ayano,” the manager called from the back. “Take out the trash.”

“Okay.”

She put down the tray she was holding and set it down, heading to the back without complaint.

The cafe’s back door creaked as she pushed through. The trash bag’s weight strained against her wrist, the faint sour smell seeping through the plastic. She pushed into the alley, the night air colder than she expected, a cool bite against her skin. 

The frills of her maid outfit fluttered slightly with the breeze, the apron brushing her thighs as she shifted the bag’s grip.

The alley was dark and narrow, with neon bleeding from the main street like a diluted watercolour. She crossed to the dumpster, the bag thudding hollow as it landed inside. 

That was it. Task complete.

She turned for the door—

—and stopped.

Someone else was here.

At the edge of the alley, a figure leaned against the wall as though he’d been waiting. No phone. No cigarette. Just standing there. 

Red hair. Red glasses. A deliberate kind of look, too put-together for the role of vagrant loiterer. He didn’t belong here.

His head turned—and their eyes locked. At first, he only saw her face, caught off guard by her being there at all.

Then his eyes drifted lower.

To the maid outfit.

Surprise flickered across his face—too quick to hide—before a slow smirk spread across his lips.

“Oh. Wow.”

His tone sounded a lot like recognition and even more like amusement.

He didn’t move. Didn’t say anything else. Just… stared.

Seconds stretched. One, then two. Long enough for the air to feel heavier. Long enough for Ayano’s instincts to sharpen.

…If he was some random loiterer, why was he still looking at her?

She let the silence sit a moment longer, testing him, before finally breaking it herself.

Ayano tilted her head, expression calculating. “…Do I know you?”

“Do you?”

Unhelpful. She narrowed her eyes—just slightly—before moving again. Fine. No reason to linger. If he was a threat, he would’ve acted. If he wasn’t… then he wasn’t worth the time.

The cafe’s warm light surrounded her as she slipped back inside. Noise, chatter, routine.

Still—her mind caught on the red hair, the glint of glasses, that flicker of surprise he hadn’t hidden fast enough.

And… for some reason, something about him felt familiar.

Not his face, she was sure she’d never seen him before—but the aura of him. A strange sense of recognition that didn’t belong to memory, but to instinct.

Weird.

…

Info-kun stood motionless in the alley long after Ayano had disappeared back into the cafe’s light.

He hadn’t expected that.

A maid cafe. Of all places.

How had he missed it? He prided himself on knowing everything about Akademi, about its students, about the ecosystem they lived in. His network was tight, his intel flawless. Yet ever since Ayano Aishi walked onto the board, the cracks had started to show.

First, Hanako’s file. Self-defense aptitude: very weak. This was apparently false, and Ayano had caught it, throwing it back at him in that flat tone of hers. A detail he should’ve verified himself. A mistake.

He adjusted his glasses, the red lenses flashing briefly in the light as the puzzle pieces finally clicked together.

That day, Ayano had a bruise on her neck. Info-kun hadn’t seen who inflicted it on his cameras—yet another oversight on his part. However, Ayano had also claimed that Hanako’s self-defense information was wrong.

But how would she know that? How else would she know unless she experienced it firsthand?

Put these two things together, and didn’t it become crystal clear who the culprit was?

…And now this.

Ayano Aishi, in a maid uniform, carrying trash through the back door like it was the most normal thing in the world.

He wasn’t even aware she had a part-time job. It was unrecorded. Unreported. An entire facet of her life his network hadn’t been logged.

Unacceptable.

He shifted his weight, letting the faint hum of the street alley cover his thoughts. He had just been here on business, as usual. Some transactions were cleaner in person. Back alleys, no cameras, no eyes. A deal. A delivery. A pickup. 

But the routine had fractured the moment she stepped out.

Ayano wasn’t supposed to surprise him. Nobody was.

He let out a slow, controlled breath. Alright. If she wanted to keep peeling back layers he hadn’t accounted for, then he would have to change his approach. Step up his game.

Because everythung Ayano was hiding, whatever she was—

He couldn’t afford not to know.

The thought should have been a relief to Ayano. No uniform. No customers. It was already the weekend—and for once, she wasn’t scheduled to clock in at the cafe.

Yet the stillness of her room didn’t feel like peace. It felt like suffocation—quiet pressing in on all sides, so complete it almost hummed in her ears. The afternoon outside was bright and alive, but here, inside her house, the air hung impossibly heavy, unmoving.

She sat cross-legged on her bed, surrounded by the faint scent of the freshly laundered clothes she was folding. A neat stack of shirts lay half-folded beside her, her hands paused mid-motion, fingers caught in the fabric of a dark pair of jeans. The simple task of household chores had been meant to steady her, to keep her mind occupied. But the silence broke through anyway, creeping into every corner.

This quiet was wrong. This kind of quiet—it wasn’t peace. It was oppressive.

Because whenever Ayano wasn’t sufficiently distracted, her thoughts always found a way back to him. To Taro. Every word of the conversation she’d overheard still looped through her head in perfect clarity—Taro and Osana’s voices replaying like a cruel recording she couldn’t shut off.

Osana had promised to leave him alone. Ayano had made sure of it. That should’ve been the end of it.

But what if Taro didn’t want her to?

What if—what if he was the one who liked Osana?

Ayano’s chest seized at the thought, breath catching halfway. The shirt in her hands wrinkled as her fingers clenched, the cotton giving way under her grip. She stared down blankly, knuckles pale, heartbeat hammering in her ears.

If that were the case, would winning Taro over still work?

She felt the faint hope she was feeling already wavering.

She would rather be anywhere else right now—so much so that she almost wished she had work. She wished for noise, for the mechanical clatter of dishes, the murmur of customers—anything to drown out the gnawing thoughts chewing at her focus.

But then her phone buzzed, a sudden, sharp vibration on the pillow beside her.

A potential distraction?

Had her prayers been answered?

She glanced down at the lit screen. It was a message. From Info-kun.

“You’re not working today.”

Ayano froze mid fold. A cold, faint prickle of irritation traced its way up her spine.

…What?

Her eyes narrowed. She wasn’t aware his surveillance extended this wide outside of school. He shouldn’t know that she worked at a maid cafe.

“How do you know that?”

The reply was instantaneous, almost smug.

“I know everything, don’t I?”

A small, dismissive scoff escaped her. He was playing his tiresome game. Clearly not, she thought, the memory of his very much incorrect assessment of Hanako flashing into her mind. 

“That’s an invasion of privacy.”

“You’re one to talk.”
“Did you enjoy eavesdropping on Osana and Taro?”

Her jaw instinctively tightened. He was, as always, infuriatingly right and utterly intolerable. She had little moral leverage to stand on at this point, but it didn't stop the surge of annoyance. Get to the point.

“Looks like the pacifist method didn’t go so well. Are you in need of something a little more… decisive?”

His provoking words, as usual, barely registered. Ayano’s resolve didn’t falter—but Info-kun wouldn’t message her without a reason.

“What do you want?”

“You know me so well.”
“It’s nothing too serious.”
“I just need a little favour.”

Ayano’s posture shifted, leaning back against her bed frame. Wasn’t she the client here? She was the one who requested favours, not the one who granted them.

“Isn’t that my line?”

“You and I are more alike than you realise. I’d say it can go both ways.”
”Since you’re not working tonight, you can think of it as an errand.”

An errand? The sheer audacity made her scoff. 

“I don’t take orders.”

“It’s not an order. It’s an opportunity.”

She didn't dignify that with a response, her silence a pointed rejection. He knew he had her attention, though, and continued to lay out the demand.

“Akademi’s student council room. I need a listening device planted there tonight. Preferably under the conference table, where the members usually sit.”

Ayano slowly blinked, the message sinking in. The student council room. It was the most secure location on campus, second only to the headmaster's office. A place bristling with five of the most paranoid, sharp-eyed students in the school.

But she didn’t really feel like going to school on a weekend…

“Why tonight?”

“Because it's been too quiet lately. The council’s been having private meetings after hours, and my feeds don’t cover that room. During the day it’s impossible. Too many eyes, too many sensors.”
“But at night…”

The implication hung in the air: But at night, the only person there would be you.

It was a stupid idea. Dangerous, unnecessary, and most importantly, it was his idea, not hers. It wasted time and risked exposure for a tangential goal.

“I decline. There's nothing in it for me.”

“Oh, but there is. You’ve already used me three times now. Might as well go all out, don’t you think?”
“You understand by now how useful I am, don’t you?”
”Doing this will get you more than enough info points for whatever it is you want. Consider it an investment.”

Useful, yes. But she had no current need for his points. 

“I don’t need any of that.”

“Don’t speak so soon, Ayano.”

Her silence stretched, a palpable lack of interest. He seemed to sense her slipping away, because the next message was a shift in tone, a calculated move to hook her back in.

“How about this? I’ll make it worth your time.”
“You want to know more about Hanako, don’t you?”

The name, simple and pure, cut to the core of the conversation. Ayano’s pulse slowed. Every other thought vanished.

“Go on.”

“His records are clean. Too clean. But I could dig where you can’t. Find what’s been erased.”
“You plant the bug. I find the truth. Simple exchange.”

Ayano stared at her reflection in the darkened phone screen. So, this was how he intended to play. He wasn't just offering her points; he was offering her a weapon, a key.

He was right. She needed to know everything she could about Hanako. If Info-kun, with his pervasive reach and lack of scruples, put his mind to it, he could probably unearth the smallest, most crucial detail. A detail she could use.

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

“Good.”

Behind the screen, from the dark room Info-kun sat in, a small smile tugged at his lips as he leaned back in his chair. She always caved eventually when the bait was personal. Info points were transactional; information about Hanako, however, was a compulsion she couldn't resist.

He had been planning to delve into Hanako's background regardless. The boy's incorrect digital profile was an insult: too clean, too normal, and worst of all: incorrect. An anomaly in his data set was an existential threat. He would have spent the next few nights peeling back the layers of whatever firewall—or simply good fortune—was obscuring the truth.

But why waste the effort when his most efficient tool was sitting idle? He might as well optimise the situation. He satisfied his own intellectual curiosity by digging into Hanako's secrets, and in return, Ayano undertook a tedious and high-risk extraction for him.

Yet, as he stared at the screen, his satisfaction wasn't purely intellectual. There was a particular pleasure in nudging her from her silent, controlled routine, in knowing her free time had become his opportunity. Her sharp refusal and ultimate compliance were just two sides of a fascinating response he enjoyed provoking. She was the most complex variable he had ever encountered—a threat to his omniscience, yet also the most stimulating partner for his operations.

He watched the 'Read' receipt appear as he locked his phone. His work was done. For now, the hunt for truth about the unnaturally perfect Hanako was underway, and the security of the Student Council was about to be irreversibly compromised.

…

The night pressed cold and still against Akademi’s windows.

“West wing entrance. Door code: 9276,” Info-kun’s voice came through the earpiece, clipped and precise.

It should have been the first time Ayano heard his voice. And yet… there was something in the tone, something faintly familiar, that tugged at her memory. She dismissed it. No time to linger.

Her reflection flickered across the glass as she slipped through the door. The keypad beeped once, and then the hallway swallowed her, silent and shadowed.

Her footsteps were deliberate, measured, each one a whisper against the polished floor.

“Second floor,” Info-kun murmured, the static barely dulling the clarity of his words. “The council room should be empty. Make it quick.”

His tone was clinical, detached. Calm.

Ayano said nothing. She didn’t need to.

Then finally, the student council room came into view. Ayano stopped just short of the corner, waiting a second before glancing around it.

Moonlight spilled across the room’s polished floor, glinting faintly off the long conference table at the center.

Empty. Just as—

A faint rustle cut through her thought. Paper.

Her body stilled instantly.

Then—movement. A flicker at the far end of the room, at the desk behind the conference table.

You’ve got to be kidding.

Ayano’s pulse steadied into a slow, deliberate rhythm. She sank into silence, every breath controlled and invisible—the kind of stillness her mother had drilled into her since childhood.

“…Info-kun,” she whispered under her breath, voice barely audible as she went to hide back behind the corner. “You said no one would be here.”

The earpiece crackled softly.

“My sensors didn’t detect anyone.”

“Well, your sensors were wrong,” she hissed. “Someone’s here.”

“That’s impossible. Who? Did you get caught?”

“Megamo Saikou.”

“What? Who?” came Info-kun’s voice faintly. “Repeat that?”

Static cut through the line—then silence. The connection died.

Fantastic.

Ayano knew better than to think Info-kun would let his battery die. It wasn't random, a jammer must have blocked the frequency. She exhaled, thinking fast. The mission wasn't over. She took the ear piece out, shoving it into her pocket.

As she did, she plucked out a paperclip, flicked it against the doorframe in the hallway—a sharp, deliberate ping.

The sound echoed just enough.

Inside, a chair scraped back.

Footsteps—steady, controlled—moved toward the door.

As Megamo stepped out into the corridor to investigate, Ayano slipped inside behind him through the other door, her movements silent, practiced.

She crouched near the council’s table, slid the small transmitter beneath the edge, and pressed until it clicked.

Done.

But the footsteps returned sooner than she'd expected.

She froze.

Megamo re-entered, closing both doors—cutting off both of Ayano’s exits. His eyes swept the room, sharp and deliberate. He calmly sat down again, but there was a tension in his posture that betrayed him. His instincts were too refined for carelessness—a Saikou never truly let their guard down.

Ayano had already melted into the far corner of the room’s darkness, breath measured to nothing.

For a moment, it worked.

Then his gaze snagged on the faint shadow where there shouldn't have been one.

His pen stilled mid-air. “…Aishi?"

For a fraction of a second, he didn’t move—didn’t even breathe.

His mind stuttered over the sight.

For a moment he thought his brain had conjured her—that fatigue and too many hours at the desk had twisted his vision and caused him to hallucinate. Because there was no reason, no possible reason, for her to be standing in the student council room at midnight.

But then her shadowed silhouette shifted across the floor—real, solid.

And the disbelief curdled instantly into suspicion.

He stood up sharply, chair scraping the floor. “Aishi, you—What are you doing here?”

She blinked once. “I could ask you the same.”

He ignored that. “How did you get in?”

“Through the door.”

“Don’t test me, Aishi.”

His voice was cool, but his pulse quickened.

Her face was calm as ever, that unnerving stillness that always made him feel like she knew something he didn’t.

Ayano’s mind raced. She wasn’t supposed to be seen. She forced her expression into something neutral, stepping slightly out of the lamplight. “I… forgot something.”

He blinked, incredulous. “At midnight? In the council room?”

“I thought it was the library.”

That earned a short, humourless laugh. “You expect me to believe that?”

“You can believe whatever you want.

Megamo’s jaw tightened. He crossed the desk and took a few steps forward until the light hit her face—and that was when he saw it again.

The faint bruise on her neck, ugly and half-faded. Ayano hadn’t bothered to cover it up tonight since she thought no one would see her anyway.

His jaw tightened. The image sent a flicker of something through him—unwanted concern, crushed instantly by logic.

No. Don’t humanise her. Don’t fall for that.

Because the facts were plain:

She had a bruise.

She had snuck into school at midnight.

And she was an Aishi.

Whatever sympathy he’d allowed himself to feel in the past days—that soft doubt that maybe she wasn’t dangerous—evaporated.

“…I’m leaving now. Sorry for the disturbance,” Ayano muttered.

But when she reached for the handle, his hand shot out from behind her—palm flat against the door beside her head, keeping it closed with a soft click.

“You forgot something in the library, so you came to the student council room in the middle of the night,” he murmured by her ear, like he was tasting the lie. “Do you even hear how suspicious you sound right now?”

She turned to face him. “Do you hear how paranoid you sound?”

“Don’t play dumb.” His voice sharpened. “You think sneaking into school after hours is normal? Or is this another one of your mother’s habits?”

Ayano’s eyes snapped up to his—cold, unreadable.

“Why are you so obsessed with her?” she asked, voice level but quieter, something coiled beneath. “You talk about my mother more than I ever do.”

His jaw clenched. “Because I know what she’s capable of.”

“And you think I’m the same? For what reason?”

“You’re an Aishi.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “That’s reason enough.”

Silence stretched, pressing between them.

Ayano exhaled, expression unchanged. “What about you? As a Saikou, you’re born perfect, right? Groomed for it. You conform to every expectation, to every rule. Did you ever ask for that?”

That caught him off guard. “What—”

She cut him off. “I never asked to be an Aishi. I never asked to live with what I am. But I’m still trying.” Her voice was soft, almost toneless, but the words carried a strange conviction. “So why are you trying so hard to force me into a world I never asked to be born into?”

He stared at her.

It should’ve sounded manipulative—another calculated lie.

But something in her eyes wasn’t performing. It was just… tired. Human.

He looked away first, then stepped back, almost as if admitting defeat to something he didn’t quite understand.

Ayano reached for the handle again—turned it—

But it didn’t budge.

She turned the handle harder. 

Nothing.

Of course.

“…It’s locked,” she said flatly, turning to Megamo.

He exhaled sharply. “You must have triggered the lockdown.”

“Why would I? You’re the one who closed the doors in the first place.”

“Because you’re the one sneaking around after hours.”

“And you?”

“I have clearance. You don’t,” he stated, his words cold and final.

Her lips pressed into a line. “Then unlock it.”

“That’s not how that works.”

He didn't wait for her to argue. He simply returned to his desk, picked up his pen, and carried on with what he was doing before she came.

“You aren’t even going to try to open it?” Ayano said.

“It’s not my problem. I have work to finish.”

Ayano exhaled, long and quiet, before sitting at the long table across from him. Might as well sit while waiting.

He paused, studying her in the faint blue of the moonlight. Every instinct in him screamed that this was wrong—the situation, the timing, her.

And yet something about it was off in another way—the faint bruise, the slight weariness around her eyes, the way she didn’t seem remotely panicked.

She didn’t look like a threat right now.

But she didn’t look harmless either. Just quiet. Detached.

Like she was used to being misunderstood.

He hated that he recognised that same look in himself.

Ayano pulled out her phone and texted Info-kun.

“I’m stuck in the student council room.”

He replied instantly. 

“What?”

“I still planted the bug. Didn’t get caught doing that.”

“…But now you’re locked in.”
”Alright, just hold on. I’ll get it open.”

Ayano set the phone aside and folded her arms on the table, quietly watching Megamo work. 

He glanced up. “Did you text someone to come? No one’s going to be able to open the door, at least not at this time. The doors open automatically at 6, you’ll have to wait it out until then.”

She said nothing, only resting her head in her arms idly.

For a while, the only sound was the steady rhythm of his pen against paper. The moonlight spilled over his desk, reflecting off the gloss of the documents he methodically signed. His focus didn’t waver, every movement deliberate and restrained.

Ayano found herself watching longer than she meant to. He really was diligent, she found herself thinking. Someone like him had no need to work this late, to carry this burden. And yet here he was, doing it anyway.

It almost reminded her of herself.

Then, her eyelids began to droop, heavy and reluctant. She allowed herself to sink into it, surrendering to exhaustion. Slowly, she lowered her head, burying her face in the crook of her arms on the table as sleep threatened to claim her.

Megamo’s eyes drifted to her more than once, noting the rise and fall of her breathing, how normal she looked in this moment, almost vulnerable.

He looked away quickly.

Minutes passed before her phone buzzed again.

A soft, mechanical click broke the quiet.

Megamo looked up.

Ayano rose, tried the handle—it turned easily.

He frowned. “How did you do that?”

She shrugged lightly. “I didn’t.”

"Fine. But I expect you to exercise discretion regarding what occurred here tonight. For both our sakes,” he sighed.

She didn’t need the warning. This situation—whatever it was—was a liability she intended to bury.

"Do not mistake my silence for tolerance, Aishi. If I find any evidence of compromise to this school’s security, I will act."

"I know," she replied.

And then she was gone, leaving the door ajar and the air colder than before.